


Resurrection

by Cunninglinguist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A Very Disturbing Flashback, A lot of kissing, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Bathing/Washing, Bed-Wetting, Bodily Fluids, Body Worship, Boyfriends Who Cope Together Stay Together, Boys Learning How to Communicate, Coping, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, Draco/Voldy is very background, Drarry Is What's Really Poppin Here, Dreams and Nightmares, Drinking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fear, Feelings, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gardens & Gardening, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, I love that that was already a tag, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kissing, M/M, Magic, Making Love, Making Out, Mood Swings, Neither of these boys have any kind of game, Night Terrors, Oral Sex, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Deathly Hallows, Post-Deathly Hallows AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Slow Burn, Smut, The Chapter(s) Will Be Tagged, Trauma, for me at least, kind of, nerdy draco, supportive friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-03-29 10:24:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13925178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cunninglinguist/pseuds/Cunninglinguist
Summary: Retreating to 12 Grimmauld Place to regroup in peace and quiet after the war, after the trials, was just the most absolutely fucking perfect thing for Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.Which is why he nearly spat out his hot toddy (that was more firewhiskey than tea, at this point) when, two nights after Hermione had called, during a tempestuous summer rain, the doorbell rang.In which a broken, mercurial Draco Malfoy shows up on Harry Potter's doorstep, and Harry lets him in.On a brief Summer Hiatus for fest writing...





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: I do not own any of these beloved characters or any part of the wonderful Wizarding World of Harry Potter, much to my chagrin, all of that credit goes directly to J.K. Rowling. I am making zero dollars from this work. 
> 
> A "me" disclaimer: PLEASE READ THE TAGS. I deal with some pretty tough stuff in this fic, and I will make a note on any chapters that contain particularly rough and/or tag-worthy materials, so you will be able to skip and/or skim them at your discretion. You are all adults and responsible consumers of internet content, so I trust that you know what you do and do not enjoy to read and will curate your experiences thusly. 
> 
> This work was briefly titled "The Path."
> 
> Happy reading!

“ _Please_ say you’ll come,” said Hermione, her warm eyes wide and pleading. She set the teacup she’d just finished washing on the drying rack and crossed her arms over her chest. “My parents won’t let off me until you say yes.”

Harry looked one of his dearest friends in her pretty face and sighed. She was practically groveling at his feet, here in his kitchen at 12 Grimmauld Place. He stood from the rustic table and offered her a resigned shrug. “All right, of course I’ll come--twist my arm, why don’t you.”

Immediately, her eyes lit up and she pulled him into a crushing embrace. He smiled and hugged her back. “I suppose there are worse things than a holiday in the south of France with your family and Ron.”

Hermione released him and playfully tapped his shoulder. “You’re damn right there are. It’ll be perfect, so near your birthday, _and_ my last hurrah before heading back to Hogwarts.”

Harry exhaled audibly, trying to ignore the ache in his chest at the mention of the place. He couldn’t so much as entertain the briefest of thoughts about returning to Hogwarts, at least...not just yet. Not so soon after... _after_.

As if she’d just remembered the ordeal they’d just been through mere months ago, Hermione’s sunny smile slipped and her brow furrowed. “Harry--”

Harry fixed her with a sharp look.

Her eyes were soft as she continued, “Harry. I know we’ve talked it to death, and I know you’re not ready, I _know_ , but...seriously, you should consider coming back. Get your N.E.W.T.s done. You’d be…” She trailed off, stopping herself. “You know what I think already, and I’m not here to push, but I do wish you’d give it some thought.”

Harry couldn’t help but marvel. Incredible. This beautiful person before him had managed to retain her compassion, her kindness, her sweetness, despite everything they’d been through. He, on the other hand...Harry wasn’t sure what he’d managed to retain. What he’d lost was a far longer list, one that made getting any sort of sleep impossible, one that made any semblance of normality seem naught more than some kind of fever dream, something just out of reach. 

Hermione checked her watch. “Goodness. I have to go, Harry--I’ll be back next weekend, though, right? With Ron?” She squinted hopefully. “And Ginny?”

Harry shifted his weight, but nodded. Things between him and Ginny had been odd since he’d broken up with her. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her, no--anything but that. Bloody hell, Harry’s love for Ginny was immense, as was his love for the rest of the Weasley family. Sure, with Ginny it had been different, romantic, at least for a time…

Since the war, Harry barely had the strength to keep himself together, nonetheless maintain any sort of relationship with someone as wonderful as Ginny, someone who deserved the world, someone who deserved far better than he could ever offer her. 

“All right,” he replied, giving Hermione one last squeeze. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Remember,” she called, turning back as she strode briskly down the walkway. “If you need anything, send an owl!”

Harry raised his hand and smiled. He wouldn’t send a owl, not with them coming round so much--he couldn’t help but worry that they were doing it purely out of pity, that he was now this _burden_ , though the splinters that remained of his rational mind told him that it was an absurd notion. 

All the same, more often than not, he preferred to be alone. 

12 Grimmauld Place was under the highest security charms and enchantments available, the Minister of Magic had seen to that himself. Initially, the thought of living here had made Harry’s stomach lurch. The idea of being surrounded by so many ghosts was almost too much for him to bear, but he’d warmed to the idea after spending two weeks out in the world, doing his best to remain anonymous. Despite switching hotels over and over, changing his appearance, and keeping the oddest hours imaginable--and not always by choice--anonymity had proved to be little more than a fantasy for the Saviour of the Wizarding World. 

He was exhausted. He craved silence. 

The house was ridiculously large for just one person. Well, one person and, of course, Kreacher, the ornery house elf who provided infrequent, neutral company, but kept the place in tip-top shape. Much like everyone in the Wizarding World, he’d been much more receptive to Harry after the war. 

Harry had come to love the dark, yawning doorways, the deafening silence, the many rooms in which he could disappear, including the old Black family library, an endless source of stories and resources for Harry to climb into when his mind nearly devoured him. 

He’d also come to enjoy the sprawling grounds. When he’d first moved in, the freshly tilled but barren garden patch in the backyard had been a source of confusion and annoyance. What the bloody hell was the point of having fertile soil, all tilled for the summer garden, with nothing planted? Hermione had helped him get it started, providing both magical and regular plants and seeds, from herbs to vegetables to a border of marigolds to keep wildlife at bay. 

He knew he could just use magic to keep everything trimmed, watered, and maintained, but he found that he quite preferred to go outside with his gloves and his trowel and his watering can and care for everything himself. It was calming, whether in the early daylight hours, or deep into the night. When he couldn’t sleep, he often found himself taking a generous glass of firewhiskey out back to behold the night-blooming jasmine in the moonlight. 

It was one of the few real pleasures in his daily life. 

As far as visitors went, Ron and Hermione were it, along with a rotating handful of Weasley family members. They came round once, sometimes twice weekly to share meals and occasionally spend the weekend. Based on the volume of invitations he had declined and owls he’d left unanswered, Harry knew he could have more visitors if he’d wanted them, but he just...didn’t. Frankly, at times, his best friends coming twice a week was nearly too much for him, and though he hated himself for it, he sometimes found himself eagerly ushering them out the door so he could be alone in the silence with his drinks and his books and his plants. 

It was temporary, he knew, this whole setup was temporary. He knew he’d most likely return to Hogwarts in the coming term to complete his N.E.W.T.s so he could fulfill his long-time dream of becoming an auror. He knew he’d soon be back out and about, a regular feature in the Daily Prophet, unable to take a piss without the entire Wizarding World speculating about the nature of the affair. He knew he’d be able to laugh again, go out with his friends, and maybe even date someone again.

All of this was inevitable, he supposed, but...in the future. Not now. His current needs were quite different.

Yes, for his current needs-- _wallowing alone, having a pity party, doing his damnedest to bury every single last memory of the Dark Lord and the war, forgetting who he was for even the most ephemeral of moments_ \--whether or not he wanted to acknowledge them for what they were, 12 Grimmauld Place was just absolutely fucking perfect for Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

Which is why he nearly spat out his hot toddy (that was more firewhiskey than tea, at this point) when, two nights after Hermione had called, during a tempestuous summer rain, the doorbell rang. 

With a pop, Kreacher apparated into the room that had become Harry’s study, alarm twisting his haggard features. He looked at Harry curiously. “Master is...expecting someone?”

Harry’s vision tunneled and his heart raced like he was going to pass out. “N-no,” he responded feebly, doing his best to control his breathing. He pulled out his wand, and together, he and Kreacher slowly descended the lengthy staircase. Thunder boomed in the sky, followed swiftly by a crack of lightning. The doorbell rang again just as they reached the bottom. 

Harry nodded at Kreacher, standing just behind the door, wand raised as the elf opened it. His face contorted in surprise--an expression that Harry had never seen on the crotchety old elf.

For a moment, all that Harry heard was the heavy downpour of rain. As he slowly navigated the expanse of the open door to see who exactly was ringing his doorbell at half past midnight, an all-too familiar voice said, “I...I’m looking for Harry? Harry Potter?”

Harry’s entire world froze as he gawked at the lanky figure who stood on his doorstep, robes drenched, carrying a sad, bent umbrella and a tiny, battered trunk.

“Malfoy?” Harry’s voice didn’t sound like his own. He felt as though he’d been _stupefied_. 

The last time he had seen Malfoy was at the Death Eater hearings, when Harry had spoken at both his and his mother’s trials. At the time, they’d barely interacted, save for the odd nod of acknowledgment and tight smile. Both of them had only remained at the Ministry for just as long as necessary, as the stress of the whole ordeal had Harry eager to retreat back to the comfort of 12 Grimmauld Place, where no one could find him unless he wanted them to.

Except Malfoy, apparently.

Malfoy had his arms raised in surrender, eyes wide, and Harry realized he was still pointing his wand. Lowering it, he shook his head, blinking rapidly. “What--what are you doing here?”

There was a heavy melancholy in Malfoy’s eyes, a tragic exhaustion in his voice as he said, “I...didn’t know where else to go.”

A flame of indignant fury flared in Harry’s chest. “And just how is that _my_ problem, Malfoy?”

Malfoy lowered his arms, defeated. Glowering at Harry, he picked up his trunk with a bit of effort; he was thinner than he’d been a few months ago. “Merlin’s sodding beard. I don’t know why I ever thought this was a good idea.”

Harry squinted at his one-time enemy--current enemy? He couldn’t tell. He was still all sharp and pointy about the face, lovely and cold like a sculpture, with that telltale silvery-blonde hair and a glare like broken glass. And yet, there was something...very different about his disposition. He was resigned, almost...vulnerable. Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he felt strangely compelled to help Malfoy. Merlin only knew, how he’d suffered. Just like Harry had suffered. Something strange and warm twisted in Harry’s chest.

The fury that had surged within him dissipated as rapidly as it had appeared. Malfoy was already making his way dejectedly down the dark, wet walkway, his trunk scraping pathetically against the stones. 

With barely a thought as to whether or not he’d regret it, Harry called, “Malfoy. Wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I am only now posting a Drarry fic for the first time, after all of these years! Thanks for reading; this has been & continues to be an absolute joy for me to write, and very cathartic. If you liked what you read, please drop a comment and/or kudos. 
> 
> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lK8xMuMxFzI) is the beautiful song for which the fic is named, though it was written to a lengthy playlist. 
> 
> I am looking forward to regularly updating this at least once a week, maybe twice if I am feeling particularly spry. Feel free to come say hello on my shit show of a [Tumblr](http://hannibalssweaters.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bizarre turn of events, Draco Malfoy reveals a different side of himself, and Harry decides to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: Major liberties are taken with the layout of 12 Grimmauld Place.

_Stop staring. Stop. Staring._ Harry chastised himself internally, finding himself curious, furious, and beyond confused as to what in the name of Merlin was actually going on here. 

He couldn’t stop staring, that was certain. Here he was, seated at his kitchen table, staring across two steaming teacups at the disheveled, waterlogged ghost of Draco Malfoy. Harry had hung his robes by the fire to dry. Now that he was unencumbered by billowing blackness, Harry could see that his face was gaunter than usual, something he would have never imagined to be possible. His grey eyes were muted and sad, sunken into dark circles, as though sleep had been a stranger to him for some time. His long, bony fingers were wrapped tightly around his mug, like he’d die if he let go. Occasionally, he shivered a little.

“So,” started Harry, aware of the irritation in his voice. “How...how _exactly_ did you find me?”

Malfoy shrugged. “I have my ways, Potter. Don’t worry--no one else knows where you are.”

“Er, that’s obviously not true,” snapped Harry. “If you know, someone else bloody well knows it, too, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

Malfoy let out a long-suffering sigh and took a loud, slurping sip of his tea. Before the war, Harry would have had a laugh at the sight of Mr Posh Pureblood sitting before him, all wet and rumpled and slurping on his tea, but that was then. Everything had changed. 

“I overheard your friends...they were talking. They couldn't see me, but I heard something about the old house and…” He sighed again, shoulders slumping forward. “That's that.”

“‘ _Overheard?_ ’” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. “Come on, you've made it all the way here, you have my bloody attention, how did you find me? I know you want to tell me.”

“Fine. I c-cast a disfiguring charm and I f-followed them--” Malfoy shivered violently, teeth chattering. 

Harry held up a hand to stop him and stood up. He walked into the living room, grabbed the wool throw from the back of the sofa, and tossed it to Malfoy. He nodded gratefully, wrapping it around his thin, wet body. He’d refused Harry’s offer for a change of clothes, most likely due to whatever remained of that infernal Malfoy pride.

Harry wagered it wasn't much, seeing as he was here, shaking like a leaf in a storm, all alone asking for shelter. For Harry’s mercy. 

It was a heady thought.

“Go on,” he prompted, crossing his arms.

“Right. I disguised myself, and followed Granger. I followed her for days, trying to find out something, anything worth finding out…” His eyes travelled down, fixating on the tea. “She's a careful one, truly. It wasn't until she met up with Weasley that I learned about this place, and how they access it.”

Harry briefly shut his eyes. He supposed he should have foreseen something like this happening, but then again, why would he have? He never would have guessed in a million years that Draco Malfoy would seek him out, not after everything that had happened. Sure, he’d always imagined that their paths would cross, most likely time and time again, but never like this.

Harry eyed his guest with genuine curiosity. “But why _are_ you here?” 

Malfoy lowered his head and pulled the blanket tightly around himself. He bit his lip, like he was holding something back, and Harry was _this close_ to losing his patience and telling him to fuck right off when Malfoy let out a tiny, pathetic sob.

Mildly alarmed, Harry said nothing, just looked on as the once snooty boy of unbroken pureblood lineage with a heart of cold ash and the pride and confidence of a thousand kings broke down in tears at his bloody kitchen table. 

Fucking hell. 

Harry reached for the firewhiskey, slowly topping off his tea as Malfoy wept, wiping his snotty nose on his blanket (of bloody course), doing his best to shroud his face in its woolen darkness. There was a time that Harry would have certainly revelled in this sorry sight, but in the moment, the schadenfreude was unappealing. In fact, he wanted to offer Malfoy some kind of comfort, but he didn’t know how that would go over, so he didn’t, opting instead to wait until he was ready to speak again. 

With a sniffle, Malfoy met Harry's gaze, his usually cold, calculating eyes riddled with despair. “Potter, I--after it all happened, and my father was...he _is_...locked up, and then my mother, my mum, she just…oh, I couldn't take it, I just couldn't bloody take it anymore.” He buried his face in the blanket and started to sob again.

Oh, fuck. What on earth was happening here? With another healthy swig of his firewhiskey-tea, Harry rose and carefully approached Malfoy. Feeling quite awkward, he cautiously reached out a hand and rested it on the broken boy’s shoulder. 

Malfoy gasped and flinched violently away from the touch, like it had hurt him. Startled, Harry immediately withdrew his hand, but didn’t move from his side.

“Er, sorry. There, there, Malfoy...it’s all right,” he said quietly, the words feeling unnatural on his tongue.

“Draco.” Malfoy turned to look up at Harry, his pale face blotchy. “P-please. Call me Draco.”

Harry furrowed his brow, his heart straining a little at the sorrowful request. “Okay. Draco it is.” 

He paused then, considering his next words carefully. 

Oh, hell. Why not? 

“You know...you can stay here, tonight. I can fix up a guest room. There’s plenty of food.” Harry gestured to the firewhiskey. “And plenty of booze. You could help me deplete my stash.”

Draco gawked at Harry like he’d just spoken Parseltongue. “What?”

Harry crossed his arms and fixed his eyes on the table. “Are you really going to make me say it again?”

Draco hung his head and sniffled, and it was so bloody pitiful that Harry immediately regretted saying that the way he had. Merlin’s bloody beard. All this empathy was driving him mad.

With a sigh, he crouched down next to his unusual visitor. “You can stay here tonight, all right?”

Draco turned slightly. “Are you sure?”

Harry nodded and offered him a tight, lopsided smile. “Yeah, I’m sure. Come on, I'll show you the bathroom and you can have a shower while I set things up.”

*************************************************************************************************************

As he listened to the shower running in the en suite bathroom, Harry pondered just how absurd his life had become. Kreacher had initially protested the intrusion, but Harry had insisted it was fine. His annoyance had persisted when Harry told him not to worry about making up the guest room right across from his room, that he’d do it himself, but he’d disapparated without further fuss and left Harry to it. 

It was for the best, he thought as he summoned bedding from the closet. Harry needed to keep himself busy so he couldn't get lost in his own mind, or let his guard down around Malfoy-- _Draco_ , he had to keep reminding himself. He had a mind to charm the door so that Draco couldn’t leave the room. Hmm, no...on second thought, Harry decided it would be less aggressive to charm his own bedroom instead, so that no one could get in.

Not that he was necessarily worried about that. This iteration of his former nemesis was nearly unrecognizable to Harry. Was _this_ Draco capable of inflicting an Unforgivable Curse on the person granting him safe haven? Was “safe haven” even applicable here? For all Harry knew, Draco had some sinister motive. It wouldn't be out of character. In fact, it would be all too dishearteningly _unsurprising_ to find out that Draco was using him, manipulating him for some gain--

Creaking floorboards startled Harry from his thoughts. With a flourish of his wand, he returned the pillows to the bed, now bedecked in crisp, clean linens, and turned towards the noise. 

Draco was standing awkwardly in the doorway, long hair tousled and damp from the shower, holding his wet towel. He’d dressed in his pyjamas, Slytherin green plaid pants and a soft grey, long-sleeved shirt. Harry was startled--he'd never seen Draco so dressed down, so...normal-looking.

“Feeling better?” Harry asked.

Draco nodded. “Much, thanks.” He inhaled deeply and furrowed his brow, looking down to fiddle with the towel in his hands. Oh, Merlin’s beard, he was about to say something. Harry waited.

“I...I’m sorry for just bursting in on you,” he said slowly. “I know you must not want guests, least of all some fuck-off D-Death Eater, least of all…” He closed his eyes. “Least of all me.”

That empathetic pang was back in his chest, ruining the moment. Truly, Draco must have been at rock bottom. Maybe everything during the war had made him lose his bloody mind, just like it had done to Harry. Maybe that’s what had humbled him enough to compel him to seek Harry out, even to _apologize_ for bursting in, for stalking his unsuspecting friends until he got the information he needed, then exploiting that information to find Harry...it felt like an episode of that Muggle show Harry had seen a bit of as a kid, _The Twilight Zone_.

Draco slowly walked towards Harry, who couldn’t help but tense up. “I saw the potion bottles in your bathroom. My mum’s got the same ones; they’re all she cares about these days. I know it’s not forever, it’s just…” He sat carefully on the bed, like he was waiting for an adverse reaction from his host. 

Harry sat down too, at the other end, eyeing Draco warily, waiting for him to continue. He must have been talking about his leftover pain potions. After the war, Harry had taken them to sleep, and sometimes, every once in a while when it got...really, really bad, he took a capful, but he tried to keep that to a minimum. In fact, that’s why they were currently stashed in the guest bathroom--out of sight, out of mind. 

But not too far, just in case.

Draco stared down at his hands. “It’s like living with a ghost. Don’t think she even recognizes me some days. I found her on the floor last week...” His voice cracked; Harry wanted to touch him reassuringly, but remembered what had happened in the kitchen and reconsidered. “Had to bring her to St. Mungo’s myself--she’s up on the third floor, they say she’ll be there for another week yet, recovering. Being in the Manor by myself, with nothing but the silence and the...the memories, of everything that happened there...it’s all just..I can’t. I can’t _fucking_ do it.” 

Draco was rambling, hunched over, his trembling hands coming to press against the sides of his face. “It’s all ruined, it’s all gone to shit--Malfoys chose the wrong bloody side, like I knew we had, and it’s all gone to shit now.”

“Malf--Draco,” interrupted Harry softly, resting his hand on the duvet next to him. He was tired, but he couldn’t stand to leave this weeping mess in the room next to him “It’s all right, yeah? It’s over. Your mum will be better before you know it. She’s...lucky that you were there.” He inhaled deeply. “You can stay here...you can stay here for a few days, all right? You ought to get some sleep, though…” He glanced at the adjacent grandfather clock. 1:45 AM. Earlier than he’d thought, but still. 

Draco nodded, and to Harry’s astonishment, he replied softly, “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks.”

Would wonders never cease tonight? Something about the interaction had Harry feeling rather warm. He decided that he was glad to be useful, glad to be helping someone just as fucked up, if not more fucked up, than he was. 

Even if that someone was Draco Malfoy. 

“Night, Draco,” Harry said, and left the room. 

After carefully bewitching his bedroom to thwart any unwanted intruders, Harry crawled under his covers and stared at the ceiling until his eyelids slowly drooped shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are my life's blood! Let me know what you think...chapter three coming soon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry gets used to his new houseguest. Also: Draco has a rough night; Harry does some research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***CAVEAT LECTOR***: bed-wetting, bodily fluids, nightmares, distress, light angst, mentions of PTSD, mentions of past abuse (including sexual abuse), mercurial af behavior

A bloodcurdling scream had Harry sitting bolt upright, drenched in cold sweat. He hadn’t been dreaming, which was a rare occurrence these days (as was sleeping at all). There, another one--it was coming from across the hall. Breathing hard, Harry fumbled for his wand and his glasses on the bedside table before bursting through the door to the guest room, wand pointed. Kreacher apparated at his side. 

Harry illuminated the room and rushed to the bed. Draco was tossing and turning feverishly, eyes squeezed shut, silvery blonde hair matted to his sallow forehead with perspiration. He’d kicked the blankets off, and when Harry scanned the mattress, he saw an enormous dark, wet spot spread across the pale blue sheet. Draco had wet the bed.

Waves of grief washed over Harry as he hovered over him, hands raised awkwardly, feeling helpless and unsure of what to do. 

“N-no...please. Please, don’t. Not again. Please not again,” whimpered Draco, hands balled into white-knuckled fists. He thrashed violently, eyebrows knitting together in distress. “Please don’t make me, please...it hurts--”

This was too much for Harry to bear. He reached out and gently shook Draco’s shoulder. “Draco,” he whispered. He shook him a bit harder. “Draco.”

When that did nothing, Harry turned and indicated to Kreacher that he should go. Kreacher gave him a look and disapparated. 

Harry set his wand down and laid both hands on his tormented guest’s shoulders, physical pain manifesting within him at the sight. His empathy would be the death of him. He was nearly in tears himself as he shook him, pleading loudly, “Draco, please--wake up, you’re safe, wake up--”

With that, Draco’s eyes flew open, searching the room in pure terror as his cold, clammy hands clutched painfully at Harry’s forearms. His ragged breathing steadily slowed as he realized where he was. 

“You’re all right,” said Harry, biting back a grimace as Draco’s nails bit into his skin. “It was just a dream. Just a bad dream.” 

If anyone could relate, he could.

Draco’s face burned a deep crimson as he released Harry’s forearms like they were on fire. Harry remained completely still as Draco sat up, taking in his sweat-soaked shirt before peering down at the stain between his legs. His face twisted in dismay and he groaned, “Oh, fuck me!”

Harry cleared his throat, feeling his humiliation secondhand. “It’s no matter, it’s all right--nothing we can’t fix almost instantaneously.”

Draco flopped back down onto the bed, curling into fetal position in the dampness of his own sweat and piss. “Oh fuck off, Potter,” he muttered darkly. “Don’t pretend you’re not just loving this.”

Harry frowned, more than a little upset that he would think that. “Are you barking? I’m not ‘loving’ this, I--” He exhaled deeply. “I know what it’s like to have bad dreams, Malf-Draco.”

Draco threw an incredulous glance over his shoulder. “Fucking hell,” he muttered. “I can’t bloody believe I fucking pissed the bed. In front of the Saviour of the sodding Wizarding World no less. That’s a bloody laugh. Suppose I do deserve it, though.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Harry, gently rapping his knuckles against the bedside table. “I'm not judging you, Draco. Go have a shower. I’ll fix the bed, and you can borrow some of my pyjamas, if you'd like.”

Draco stared at him for a long while, eyes guarded and suspicious. “Why are you being so...why are you being like this?”

Harry let out a humorless little laugh. “Well, like I said...I know what it’s like to have bad dreams.” His face turned somber and he met Draco’s eyes. “I know what it’s like to wake up screaming, to not know...not know where you are, or what's happening. Besides, it’s kind of...well, it’s not _nice_ , really, but...it’s a bit comforting to know that I’m not the only one, these days.”

Draco swallowed, unfurling his lanky limbs from the cramped position to stand. He looked down at his damp pyjamas and made a face that reminded Harry very much of the Draco he used to know, which he found strangely comforting. 

“Go on then, clean yourself up,” prompted Harry. “I’m not going to run out of water.”

Draco gave him a feeble little smile and ducked his head, almost bashfully, as he made his way to the bathroom for the second time that night. 

As he magicked the dirty sheets off and summoned clean ones from the linen closet, Harry found himself deep in thought. Of course, he was no stranger to night terrors, and cold sweats, and he’d even pissed the bed himself once, right after everything had happened. But it had just been the one time, and most likely because he’d been falling down drunk before climbing into bed, and because the war had just ended days before. 

But Draco was still pissing the bed so many months later. Well, of course he was, what with everything that Voldemort had forced him to do...a cold anchor of dread settled in Harry’s gut as he thought of that time in court, at Narcissa’s trial, when Draco had kept his eyes fixed on a wall, staring vacantly as his mother had tearfully apologized to him over and over, for all the things that she had known about, and for all the things that she hadn’t known about.

Particularly while Voldemort was staying in Malfoy Manor. 

She hadn’t been explicit, but she hadn’t needed to be. Harry would have had to be a total idiot to not get the general gist of things. Every time he thought of the possibilities, the implications of Narcissa’s words, his stomach turned. As if all the torture and the killing and the terror hadn’t been bad enough without the implication of sexual assault and abuse. 

Harry shuddered, a cold lump forming in his throat at the thought. He hurried up and finished with the linens, laying out some spare pyjamas neatly on the duvet and slipping out before Draco returned from his shower.

 

************************************************************************************

Draco didn’t surface until almost noon the next day. The sun hung high in the sky, the grass still wet from the storm last night. Harry had gone out back to inspect his garden and pick some of that fresh thyme. He was relieved to see that the storm hadn’t uprooted or smothered any new growths. When he came back inside, Draco was sitting at the kitchen table, all traces of last night’s incident gone, a picture of easy domesticity. His long legs were stretched out under the table, feet bare, blonde hair still mussed from sleep, wearing Harry’s Gryffindor pyjamas, reading yesterday’s _Daily Prophet_ and drinking a steaming cup of coffee like he belonged there. 

Harry was alarmed by the comfort that settled over him at the sight. This was the exact opposite reaction that he’d been having to people in his kitchen, or anywhere around him, as of late, and the fact that it was _Draco Malfoy_ was...unsettling. 

Harry cleared his throat and set down his thyme. “Morning,” he said, flicking his wand and summoning the plate that he had saved from Kreacher’s morning fry-up. Draco watched, stunned, as Harry gently set it in front of him, wisps of steam rising from the generous portion of eggs, sausage, and tomatoes. 

“Oh,” he said, genuinely surprised, a faint blush colouring his high cheekbones. “Wow. Th-thanks, Potter.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Harry, smiling inwardly. He wondered when Draco had last eaten a proper meal. Also, now that he was seeing it, he decided that a soft blush quite suited Draco’s angular features, but he quickly pushed that disruptive thought from his mind, chalking it up to the fact that it felt quite _nice_ to--sort of--take care of someone. 

Even if that someone was Draco Malfoy.

Not only did it make him feel useful, but it also (and more importantly) served as a brilliant distraction from, well, just about everything. 

After last night, Harry was fairly certain that Draco wasn’t going to pull anything, but he wasn’t quite willing to bet on it, so he kept his relative distance while maintaining vigilance. They spent the day getting used to being in each other’s space, one moving around the other almost clumsily, despite the more than ample room in the house. An accidental shoulder bump in the hallway. Draco’s hip connecting with the table in the living room, startling Harry with the noise (and his subsequent cursing). Harry mistaking the teacup Draco had been using for his own. Despite these growing pains, Harry decided that sharing the space felt sort of natural. 

Fortunately, Draco didn’t seem up for conversation--not about the night before, not about anything, and that was fine by Harry. Frankly, he was relieved, as he doubted that he could handle such heady subjects anyway. Hermione had been trying to get him to talk about his feelings nearly all summer, and he had been less than receptive. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to share them with her, it was just too soon. Besides, although she had been at his side, time and time again, there was still this...space between them, when it came to all that had happened during the war, with Voldemort. A great, yawning void between Harry and his two dearest friends that Harry wasn’t certain could ever be bridged. Harry didn’t want to burden them with what he knew, what he had endured, because sure, they understood, but they didn’t really _understand_. 

How could they? How could anyone? And even if they did end up truly understanding, how could they look at him the same way?

That was another unfortunate effect of the void: the piteous looks they gave Harry whenever he opened up about or alluded to anything that had happened with Voldemort. It was unintentional on their parts, and he knew they’d train themselves out of it if he brought it up, but it was a very sad sort of look that made Harry’s blood boil. They still walked on eggshells around him, like he was in constant danger of breaking apart at the slightest little mention of anything. It made Harry feel like a bloody child, like some kind of victim.

Harry knew he would never have to see that very sad sort of pity from Draco Malfoy. At least, not for the foreseeable future, if he were to base that assumption off of the past thirteen-ish hours.

Just before dusk, Harry found himself in the library, deeply entrenched in Sirius’ collection of books. Before he could acknowledge or even identify what it was that he was looking for, he pulled out a book on Muggle medical conditions, specifically _psychological issues_. Harry had grown up hearing many of these terms tossed about erroneously by the bloody Dursleys, and it was fascinating to leaf through the numerous pages, reading up on definitions and clinical studies.

Towards the end of the book, Harry froze mid page-turn. 

_Post-traumatic stress disorder._

Dudley had once claimed to have PTSD after Harry had stepped on his shoddily cobbled together model airplane as a young teenager, but of course that was rubbish. Harry knew that soldiers--Muggle soldiers--experienced PTSD after their wars, and that it was formerly known as "shell shock". If Muggle soldiers went through this, it would only make sense that wizard soldiers did, too. Harry devoured the page. 

_A condition of persistent mental and emotional stress occurring as a result of injury or severe psychological shock, typically involving disturbance of sleep and constant vivid recall of the experience, with dulled responses to others and to the outside world._

Hmm. That checked several boxes for Harry’s behavior and disposition for the past several months. Longer than that, actually. Harry wondered if he didn’t have PTSD since before the war even began, since as early as the summer after his first year at Hogwarts. 

Bloody hell. 

He kept reading.

_Complex post-traumatic stress disorder is a psychological disorder thought to occur as a result of repetitive, prolonged trauma involving sustained abuse or abandonment by a caregiver or other interpersonal relationships with an uneven power dynamic. C-PTSD is associated with sexual, emotional or physical abuse...Situations involving captivity/entrapment (a situation lacking a viable escape route for the victim or a perception of such) can lead to C-PTSD-like symptoms, which include prolonged feelings of terror, worthlessness, helplessness, and deformation of one's identity and sense of self._

Harry closed his eyes, the words seared into his brain. The “deformation of one’s sense of self” bit resonated entirely too well with him, and he had a hunch that it most likely rang true for Draco, too. How could months--years--of trauma, _captivity_ , and _prolonged emotional, physical, and_ (as he'd come to learn over the summer) _sexual abuse_ at the hands of Voldemort and the Death Eaters, _not_ irreversibly alter one’s sense of self? He read on, noting that one symptom of C-PTSD included bed-wetting for both children and adults. 

There was that bloody inconvenient ache again in his core. He and Draco might have been pitted against one another in the war, but they were very much on the same side when it came to their suffering in the aftermath. Draco was doing even worse than Harry, he’d reckon, what with his newfound, and most likely ill-begotten humility, and the bloody nightmares….

Should he mention these findings to Draco? Would it be helpful if he did, or would it just cause him to fly into a rage? He’d been so calm, so quiet and non-confrontational, Harry didn’t know if he could handle a sudden radical personality shift. Did he even want to invite the possibility of this conversation into his immediate future? He argued with himself for a few minutes before ultimately deciding to share the knowledge with his guest.

Harry meandered into the living room, where he’d last seen Draco, but found it empty. Hmm. He poked his head into a few other rooms downstairs, with no luck. He found him upstairs in the guest room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, breathing hard, clutching a piece of parchment. 

Suddenly uneasy, Harry cleared his throat and lightly rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. Draco whirled around, eyes huge and wild, bright with wrathful tears. 

“What do you want, Potter?” he hissed. 

Well, there was the Malfoy he knew. Fuck. Angry at himself for feeling as taken aback as he did, Harry shook his head and concealed the book behind his back. “Nothing, just, er...checking in to see if you..need anything.”

“No, Potter, I’m not a fucking child, don’t ‘need’ anything, certainly not from you.” He folded the parchment crisply in half and leapt to his feet, dramatically flourishing his wand and spitting, “ _Colloportus!_ ” 

The door slammed shut in Harry’s face.

Harry’s cheeks burned. He should have expected this, but that did nothing to ease the sting of rejection. He knew he could easily counter Draco’s spell with first-year level magic, but he decided to let him be. The mere idea of a fight exhausted him so thoroughly that he thought he might need to sit down. Draco clearly needed some space, so Harry would give him some fucking space. 

Harry meandered down the long hallway, finding Kreacher muttering to himself, dusting the legs of the armoire in one of the other guest rooms. “Kreacher,” he said. “Did...did something happen today, to Malf...Draco?”

Kreacher stopped and looked at Harry. “An owl arrived, Master, enchanted in such a way that only Mr. Malfoy could relieve him of the letter he was carrying. Kreacher told him as much, and he took the letter. Went white as a sheet, and ran away upstairs to read it.”

Mildly alarmed, Harry asked, “And you don’t know who sent the owl?”

Kreacher shook his head. “No, sir--the letter itself was bewitched too, Kreacher could only see the name of the addressee.”

Harry ran his hands through his hair. Who knew that Malfoy was here? If one person knew, how many others knew?

Before he knew what he was doing, Harry was banging on the door to the occupied guest room, his heart racing. “Open up, Malfoy. I need to talk to you.”

No answer.

Fuck it all, then. Harry pulled out his wand and muttered, “ _Alohomora._ ” The door clicked open, and for a moment Harry wondered why Malfoy had used such a basic charm if he’d really wanted to keep Harry out. 

The room was an absolute nightmare--Malfoy’s belongings were strewn everywhere, several paintings on the wall now lay, smashed, on the ground, pillows torn, feathers peppering the floor, and in the middle of everything there was Malfoy, kneeling on the floor, head in his hands, horrible, gut-wrenching, dry heaving sobs pouring from his body. 

His head jerked up at Harry’s intrusion and he rose to his feet, reaching for his wand, but Harry was quicker. Slightly panicked, Harry shouted, “ _Expelliarmus!_ ” and Malfoy stumbled back, his wand flying to the opposite side of the room. 

“Merlin's fucking beard, Malfoy,” Harry panted, his ears ringing. “What the hell is going on?”

Malfoy’s face puckered in rage. “Fuck off, Potter.”

“You’re in _my_ bloody house, _you_ fuck off, Malfoy!” He waved an arm at the destruction around them. “You’ve destroyed a room in _my_ house! I think you owe me at least an explanation, if not a bloody apology.”

Malfoy raised his hands, like he had the day before on his doorstep-- _had that really only been last night?_ \--but in a more begrudging fashion, his face still twisted in an unbecoming sneer. “I’m not going to show you my letter.”

“Fine, I don’t want to see the sodding letter. I _do_ want to know why you’ve destroyed my house, though.”

Malfoy sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. A hint of something real--maybe fear, maybe sorrow--flickered in his grey eyes before they returned to their natural, icy, closed-off state. He straightened his spine and stuck that pointy chin out defiantly, but when he spoke, his voice was less biting. “I do...I do apologize for the...for this. The mess. I will clean it up. I received some...unsavory news this afternoon and-”

“Had a right fit,” Harry offered. He felt his face soften as he lowered his wand.

Malfoy-- _Draco_ \-- uncrossed his arms and inhaled deeply, like what he was about to say took strength. “Anymore, I find myself unable to...control my reactions to certain things. It's insufferable, really. My parents have said as much. Well, my father has. Not that I’ve seen much of him these days.”

Harry again felt compelled to offer him a comforting touch, but did not. Instead, he said, “I think you're feeling like that because you've got complex post-traumatic stress disorder. You know. From the war. And everything else that's happened.”

Draco wrinkled his nose and scoffed. “I have complex _what_ , Potter?”

Harry summoned the book from his room and flipped it open to the page he needed. He angled it so Draco could see. “See? Just here. It's what someone experiences after a traumatic event, like a war, or prolonged abuse, be it physical or sexual--”

“I've heard _enough_ ,” hissed Malfoy, slamming the book shut on Harry’s hand. “You can't possibly think you know a damn thing about what I went through because of some rubbish in this idiot Muggle book--”

That was it. Furious, Harry tossed the book aside and shouted, “No, you great fucking git, I don't know what you went through because of some idiot Muggle book, I know because I bloody went through it, too!”

Harry’s blood sang in his ears as they stared each other down, both fuming. Draco’s face lost its edge a bit, betraying his revelation, as though he'd never considered that possibility before this moment.

“We didn't go through the exact same things in the exact same way,” said Harry, now thoroughly exasperated and very much craving some firewhiskey. “But we both had a right time of it with Voldemort, didn't we?” He swallowed thickly and pressed on, just a bit further. “He chose us both, didn’t he?”

Draco winced at the name, his legs slowly folding beneath him. He sank onto the floor as all signs of his ire dissipated like smoke in the wind. Harry felt compelled to join him and sat cross-legged next to his infuriating guest. 

“I think...well...sometimes it's like...I think you're the only one who understands it,” said Draco quietly, fiddling with a hole in Harry’s old pyjama pants. “I forget, though. I forget that you understand just how powerful he is. What he can do to you...what he can make you do.”

Compulsively, Harry reached out to touch Draco’s knee. He flinched, but let Harry’s hand stay there. Harry's stomach flipped, as something like affection surged in his chest. It was refreshing, and oh so foreign, for Harry to talk to anyone who even remotely grasped even the slightest sliver of a fraction of what he had been through last year.

“I do understand, Draco,” said Harry. “I know you didn't want to do those things, and I know...I know you didn't want him to win, in the end. I know you helped us. Helped me.”

Harry stopped talking when he realized Draco was crying again, tears flowing silently down his pale face. Harry had spent a long time considering how Draco must have felt, both throughout the war and in the aftermath. He might have been a prick, but he wasn't all bad. Certainly not Death Eater bad. He’d been a child, like Harry, just raised on the wrong side. 

“We were just kids,” said Harry softly. Draco gave him a look so raw and open that Harry found himself acting without thinking: he brought his hand to Draco’s face and gently wiped the tears away.

The sheer bewilderment on Draco’s face was what finally got Harry to clock exactly what it was that he'd just done. His face burned and he quickly rose to his feet, stumbling a bit on the way up. He asked the first question that came to his mind. “You hungry?”

Draco wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and regarded him almost fondly. “Know what? I actually am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How we doin'? Did you enjoy? If so, let me know--comments and kudos are my life's blood! 
> 
> Chapter 4 will be posted next weekend--I know I just posted 3 chapters in one weekend, but dammit, I'm determined to control myself and stick to a weekly schedule! (Well, for now, at least.)
> 
> In the meantime, please feel free to come say hello/spam me with Drarry headcanons on [Tumblr](http://hannibalssweaters.tumblr.com/)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry attempts to get his life together, Draco chops vegetables, and conversations and revelations are had.

The next morning, Draco wasn’t up when Harry had breakfast. Harry asked Kreacher to set aside a large plate of food for him, given how well that had gone over before. Merlin knew, that boy needed to eat. He took a cup of nonalcoholic tea out to the garden; nothing needed doing that morning, he just stood by the plot and took it all in: the plants, the air, everything. 

He hadn't heard any noise the night before, which he hoped meant that Draco had had a better night than he had. Not that Harry's night was as awful as it could have been, but his mind had been racing and his heart followed suit, making it impossible to get any sleep. When he did periodically doze off, it was light and meaningless, not a true rest.

The day was bright and hot, so Harry decided to spend it inside, immersed in books. Just after lunch, he opted to add firewhiskey to his tea. He decided to give some serious thought to the timeline that would be necessary in order for him to actually return to Hogwarts for an eighth year, and in turn sit for the N.E.W.T.s, though the thought of returning to Hogwarts still made him quite queasy. He knew he had to do it; he knew that one day, he’d eventually reach a point where he actually wanted to be out among people, contributing to society, rather than hiding in Grimmauld Place forever, slowly pickling his insides with firewhiskey and driving himself insane. 

So, Hogwarts, it seemed, was inevitable. Harry sighed and rifled through his old textbooks. _Defense Against the Dark Arts_. Ha, that's a laugh. He certainly didn't need any more lessons about that. Perhaps McGonagall would allow him to skip the class altogether, given his very real life experience. Harry shoved the book aside bitterly. 

If he were being honest, Harry was the most concerned about resuming Potions. He knew he'd need high marks in Potions order to become an auror, but he’d not brewed something himself since he'd had the Half-Blood Prince looking over his shoulder. A great sadness spiraled through him at the memory.

Merlin’s beard. Harry slid the rest of his textbooks aside, already fatigued by the ghosts that he’d disturbed within. Onto something else. For his auror career path timeline, he’d definitely need Hermione to look over all of the logistics, double check his half-tipsy work. He pulled a fresh piece of parchment and began to pen her a letter.

Halfway through, he stopped, feeling like a dolt. He didn’t have any way to send her the bloody letter. After Hedwig...Harry hadn’t felt ready to replace her, which had rendered him incommunicado, which, up until now, had very much worked in his favor. If someone important had contacted him with something urgent, he'd responded using their owl, but Harry realized that if he ever wanted to be normal again, or at least try to be normal...actually, ”normal” was probably the wrong word to use here. Functional was much more fitting. If he ever wanted to be a _functional_ member of society again, he’d need an owl.

With a sigh, he resigned himself to the fact that he’d have to make his way over to Diagon Alley at some point soon. The very idea made his temples throb. Maybe he didn’t need to be functional just yet, maybe Hermione would just sense that he needed to communicate and send him an owl first and he could skip the ghastly ordeal altogether.

Well. Until he needed to collect his books and supplies for Year Eight. Harry sighed, long and loud. He supposed he'd just need to go and get it all out of the way in one shot, the owl and the supplies, then he could return to the cool, dark, narrow halls of Grimmauld Place and spend the rest of his summer in peace.

When Harry’s brain felt fuzzy from both overuse and a bit too much to drink, he meandered into the living room, where Draco was sitting, poring over a book with an ornate illustration of a goblet on its cover. Maybe something to do with potions. Maybe Draco was going back to Hogwarts for Year Eight, too.

Harry smiled openly. He didn't know if he'd ever get used to seeing him unkempt and barefoot, lounging around in his pyjamas, but he found the sight quite endearing. He had changed into a different, black, long-sleeved shirt, but he hadn’t changed out of Harry’s pyjama pants. Harry hoped that meant that he had made it through the night with little to no incident.

“Hey,’” said Harry, leaning against the doorway. “You hungry?”

Draco threw him a little half smile over his shoulder. “There you are, Potter. Yeah, famished. You?”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Had Draco been looking for him? Had he...wanted to spend time with him? 

More importantly, why the hell should Harry give two fucks about it if he did? 

Fuck. Harry pushed these most intrusive thoughts aside and made his way into the kitchen. He waved Kreacher away, set on making a vegetable stew for supper. Just like gardening, he’d found that cooking like a Muggle was rather relaxing. For the most part. Of course, this was not counting that time two weeks ago when he’d attempted to bake a quiche and nearly burned the place to the ground. “Too advanced, mate,” Ron had said with a chuckle as they’d frantically doused the flames, while Hermione, exasperated, had yelled from the other room to ask them what they wanted her to order for take-away.

In any case, this stew was fairly basic, and Harry found a certain zen in peeling and chopping up the vegetables. Draco padded in, hovering awkwardly between the kitchen counter and the door until Harry invited him to come help.

“That is, if you know what you're doing,” he added, a jovial caveat. _Like they were friends._

Draco chuckled a little, but it wasn't derisive or malicious, which classified it as a noise that Harry had never heard before. “I don't, really, but if you can do it, then how bloody hard can it be?”

Harry rolled his eyes and passed him some carrots and a knife. “All right then, masterchef. These should go simply enough for you.”

“I can't believe you've just willingly handed me a knife,” said Draco, his mouth slightly upturned. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Harry snorted, surprised at the levity in his voice. “Right, well, that makes two of us, doesn’t it?”

The little half-smile Draco gave Harry in return made Harry’s mouth go dry. 

Draco picked up the peeling and chopping quite quickly (“'It’s just like potions,” he’d said smugly as he’d brushed past Harry to add perfectly chopped bell peppers to the pot), and Harry found that he quite enjoyed working with his new assistant--prep time was shaved nearly in two, and before he knew it, the food was ready.

They ate in mostly companionable silence; every so often, Harry felt the intensity of Draco’s stare and looked up, only to catch him looking away. It was like Harry was in some sort of parallel universe. Maybe he was. Maybe they both were. 

Draco was wolfing down the stew-- _good, he looks so bloody thin,_ thought Harry, watching as his guest eagerly ladled a fourth portion into his bowl. Good thing they’d made extra. 

It was nice, this, he thought as he enchanted the dishes in the sink. Having someone around. Someone who wasn’t tiptoeing around him, or trying to force conversation. Someone who wasn’t treating him like the Saviour of the bloody Wizarding World, or worse, some famous, broken thing. Someone who could just _exist_ post-war, without desperately attempting to cobble together a shoddy facade of normalcy.

_And that someone just so happened to be Draco Malfoy._

After dinner, Harry poured some firewhiskey into their teacups and sat down at the table just across from Draco. 

“Cheers,” he said, raising his teacup. 

Draco huffed a little laugh out of his nose and clinked his cup against Harry’s. “Cheers.” 

“This helps me get to sleep.” Harry gestured to his cup. “Sometimes, it even helps me stay asleep.” 

Draco nodded. “It’s nearly impossible for me to get anything resembling rest without some kind of substance, but even then, nothing's a safe bet.” 

They sat in silence for a long moment, eyes flitting about the room, lingering on anything but each other before Draco said softly, “Sometimes I don't even want to _try_ to sleep, because if I do sleep...I could dream. And I usually dream. About him, it's always about him.” 

Harry wanted to comfort him, but he couldn't think of anything comforting to say. “I dream about him all the time, too,” he said flatly. “I dream about dying. I dream about him, and the fucking Death Eaters killing my…” 

Harry trailed off, unable to finish the thought. Hot tears burned in his eyes. Draco was staring at him with that open face that made Harry want to reach out and touch him, his eyes heavy with remorse. Harry looked away, blinking rapidly, willing his tears away so he wouldn't cry in front of his guest. Harry's tears were the last thing that Draco needed; they were the last thing that anyone needed. 

“I'm sorry,” said Draco, his voice melancholy. Tentatively, he reached across the table and gently placed his fingertips on Harry's arm. He looked down at his hand like he thought it might explode, or get chopped off, eyes flickering rapidly between where he was touching Harry and Harry’s face.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, me too.” 

Draco slowly withdrew his touch, like he didn’t know how to extricate himself from the interaction, like he was studying how people reacted to benign touches. Harry’s insides twisted; the subject was due for a change. 

“So, I realized today that I ought to get a bloody owl,” he said, casually sniffing, pretending like he hadn't just been about to cry. “I noticed that you didn't have one, either. Not that you need one, getting secret correspondence delivered to you in a location so charmed and enchanted that not even some of the most experienced witches and wizards in the world could reach it, but. Anyway.” He inhaled. “That means I need to go to Diagon Alley at some point.” 

Draco let out a frustrated groan in response and slurped his tea. 

“I know. I am not...I am not particularly keen on this idea either, but if I'm going to be a functional wizard at any point in the somewhat immediate future, I'm going to need to leave the house.”

Harry’s stomach fluttered as he opened his mouth to say his next piece. Why was he nervous? “At this point, I think it might be easier, more...palatable, to go with someone else, so, would you be up for it? We could get owls, and anything we need for our N.E.W.T.s.” 

Draco scoffed loudly. “You must be joking. N.E.W.T.s?!” He raised his eyebrows incredulously. “If you think I'm stepping one foot into that bloody school ever again, you're fucking mad.” 

Harry frowned. “I don't understand, I thought you--” 

Draco held up his hand. “I'm a Malfoy, I don't need my bloody N.E.W.T.s. I don't need bloody Hogwarts. I'll be perfectly fine.” 

Harry crossed his arms. “Perfectly fine holing up here and never interacting with another person again?” 

Draco nodded vigorously. “Yeah. Sounds fucking fantastic.” 

Unwilling to drop it, Harry pressed, “But Draco, you need your N.E.W.T.s to get a job. Come on, I know you must want one, you can't waste all that snark and those high society manners on just me forever.” 

“Well why not?” 

Harry chalked the warmth in his belly up to the firewhiskey, and not to the fact that Draco had all but said that he'd like to stay around Harry--and only Harry--for the foreseeable future. Heat crept up the back of Harry's neck and he scrubbed a hand over his face awkwardly. 

Draco leaned back in his chair; Harry realized he'd already finished his tea. He reached for his cup and summoned the kettle and firewhiskey to top him off, feeling the soul-crushing intensity of piercing grey eyes on him.

“I’ll go with you to Diagon bloody Alley,” said Draco, snatching his freshly refilled cup and taking a long sip. 

Harry smiled at his acquiescence, though he felt that the near-delirium coursing through his veins at the response was a bit unwarranted. 

Draco swallowed. “But, I don't think that I'm...I don't think I'm quite ready for all that. At some point, but. Not just yet.” 

“Oh, no, of course,” Harry agreed, a bit too quickly. “I don't think I am, either.” He paused. “What if we...what if tomorrow, we try going round the corner in Muggle London? You know. Grab some food. Like a practice run so we can, I dunno, get used to being around people again?” 

Draco was definitely amused now, or maybe just drunk, but the way he was looking at Harry made him feel almost giddy. He smirked and said, “Yeah, all right. Let's try that. Probably a good idea, considering this sorry lot.” He gestured back and forth between them with his teacup. Some tea sloshed onto the table. 

Harry grinned, feeling a contentment that he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Rather than asking him to clarify, or just saying, point-blank, “What?”, or looking at him like he had grown another head, Draco had just understood him when he said absurd things like, “I’m awkward and anxious and I need a practice run around a bunch of Muggles before trying my hand at going into the wizarding public at large”. He’d just known, no explanation required. And he felt the same way as Harry did. 

It was...nice. 

“You were right about this firewhiskey tea,” said Draco as they finally climbed the stairs at half past midnight. “I’m knackered.” He stumbled and let out a surprised little huff. “And apparently quite pissed.” 

Harry chuckled. “Yeah, it's good stuff, isn't it? Should put you out through the night.” 

“I hope so.” 

“But...you had a good night last night, right? I didn’t hear anything from your room.” Harry’s vision swam a little as he turned to his unlikely companion. Draco looked so relaxed, like he didn’t have a care in the world, and something hot and woozy uncoiled in Harry’s chest. 

In that moment, Harry was struck by the realization that this was the most time that they had ever spent alone together, and all without fighting--well, not entirely without fighting, but without fighting about something that could not be resolved. This was the largest amount of conversations that they had ever had without leaping down each other's throats. 

Furthermore, he realized as his eyes widened, he really enjoyed this time, even though it meant being around another human being. He also wanted to make sure that Draco was safe, taken care of, and maybe even happy, which meant... 

Harry might have had feelings for Draco Malfoy. Well...for this iteration of Draco Malfoy. Maybe. He didn’t know what they meant, or even what they were, but they were definitely there, and very bloody inconvenient at that. 

Fuck. 

Draco didn’t meet his eyes as he said, “Er...yeah. Last night was fine. Uneventful.” 

Harry had momentarily forgotten that they were having a conversation. “Oh. Good.” They'd come to their respective doors, one just across the hall from the other. “Well, good night,” said Harry, fighting the ridiculous urge to lean forward and give Draco a hug. 

A curious smile played at Draco’s lips. He looked at Harry for a little too long, then he carefully stepped forward, a little more, and Harry’s heart was thudding in his chest and Draco was leaning in and wrapping his arms around Harry to embrace him tentatively. Bells and alarms blared in Harry’s mind as he struggled to process everything that was happening, the warmth of Draco’s lean body pressed gently against his, the smell of his hair, the hummingbird rhythm of his own heart, the rush of blood between his legs...Harry stiffly returned the embrace, using every fiber of his being to control the sound of his breathing as he gently ran his fingers over the soft weave of Draco’s shirt. 

As soon as it had started, Draco was pulling away, and it was done. “‘N-night, Potter,” he said softly, his cheeks flushed significantly more than they had been before. With that, he slipped into the guest room and closed the door behind him, leaving a bewildered Harry standing alone in the hallway.

 _Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading that ridiculous fluffiness as much as I enjoyed writing it, because Chapter 5 will be coming in one (1) calendar week (if I can hold out that long), and things are about to get real. 
> 
> Feel free to leave me a comment or 20 letting me know your thoughts! I am new to this whole slow-burn, long-fic situation and am loving the ride.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets an unwanted glimpse into Draco's personal hell, forcing both boys to confront past traumas together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***CAVEAT LECTOR***: This is A REALLY ROUGH CHAPTER, rife with hurt/comfort, heavy on the hurt, but also heavy on the comfort, so PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION. 
> 
> Warnings for a flashback of GRAPHIC RAPE/NON-CON, torture, terror, sexual & physical abuse, voyeurism, night terrors, bed-wetting, bodily fluids, also for intense emotions, and all wrapped in fluff/a sweet ending.

Harry laid stock still in bed, willing his eyes to close. He’d been teetering on the edge of slumber for millennia, it seemed, thanks to the firewhiskey tea, but incessant, irritating thoughts kept yanking him back into stark lucidity. Every time his eyelids started to droop shut, he was bombarded by visions of Draco’s face. The terror in his eyes when Harry had roused him from his haunted sleep, and the subsequent relief that had washed it away. The humorous little smirks and jokes over chopped vegetables. The openness on his face right before they had hugged. He shifted, agitated. He could still feel the heat of Draco’s body lingering on his skin, like an imprint of dark magic. Or a burn. 

Or a kiss.

Maybe Harry was misreading things here. He’d had romantic feelings before, with his crush on Cho and his relationship with Ginny, and the way he felt about Draco was quite different than the way that he had felt about them. Wasn’t it? Well, maybe it wasn’t entirely different. Maybe it was just a...different sort of romantic?

His head was starting to ache. What did this mean, and why was it happening now? And why did it all have to be so bloody confusing?

He wished desperately that he could ask Sirius about it. Sirius would have most likely pressed a palm to his forehead, checking for fever-induced madness, what with the object of his questionable affection being a bloody Malfoy, but he would not have judged. He would have done what he always did: look out for Harry’s best interest, and guide him smoothly through the tumult of the times, no matter what that meant.

Harry rolled onto his side with a huff. This was the first time in months that he hadn’t felt like a marionette, forced into some grotesque, complacent dance based upon someone else’s expectations of post-war normalcy. While the war had ended for the Wizarding World at large with Voldemort’s demise, it was very much still ongoing for Harry. 

He kept waiting for the happiness and relief to set in, waiting to feel normal, but it just...wasn’t happening. He couldn’t help but feeling like he was out of time, beholden to someone else’s clock, scrambling about to pick up all the pieces and hastily gluing them back together so that he might one day resemble the person he once was. 

Whoever that might be. 

On top of that, he felt like he was letting his friends down, even Ron and Hermione. Though he knew deep in his heart that they held him to no such ridiculous standard, he berated himself for it all the same. He ought to be better for them; they deserved more than a broken shell of a person propped up by unwanted headlines and legends that had lost any root in humanity.

Draco...well, now that there were no more expectations, no more sides to choose, no more wars to fight, no more house alliances, et cetera, all barriers between them had come tumbling down. Nothing seemed important enough to be worth the effort of holding a grudge; at least, not to Harry. Not after all this time, and certainly not with the way that Draco was acting these days. He had changed. He had _been_ changed. Like Harry had.

Perhaps Harry was just exhausted and more than a bit drunk, therefore in no shape to be this introspective at such an hour.

With a frustrated sigh, Harry kicked off his sheets. All of these thoughts had utterly ruined the sleep-inducing qualities of his firewhiskey tea. His mind wandered fleetingly to the pain potions in the other room, but the idea of trying to get to them without disturbing the catalyst to his introspection gave him pause. Seemed like deciding to keep them in the guest room was working out for his health, after all.

Resigning himself to another sleepless night, Harry slid his feet into his slippers and trudged down to the kitchen. Their teacups were where they had left them on the table. Harry smiled and rinsed his out. It was a particularly balmy night, and at this point, Harry was sick of tea, so he poured himself a cup of straight firewhiskey and wandered into the library, where he tried to quiet his mind with books.

Just past 3 o’clock, Draco’s howls of anguish startled Harry from a passage about potions for healing scars caused by dark magic. Fear froze in his chest as he abandoned the book and his drink and barreled down the hall, up the stairs, taking two at a time, and burst into the guest room. He found the same grievous sight as he had on the first night--Draco, completely unconscious, drenched in sweat, fists clenched, piss darkening the sheets, mouth twisted around harsh, frenetic pleas for some menacing specter not to hurt him, not to _make_ him.

“Draco,” he said, as loudly as he could while maintaining what he hoped was a soothing tone. He sat on the mattress beside him and, without thinking, reached down to smooth the sweat-soaked silvery strands from Draco's forehead. The moment his fingers made contact with his face, Harry felt a nauseating pull behind his belly button, like he’d touched a cursed portkey, and suddenly he was being ripped from his current reality, and plunged into…

Malfoy Manor? The edges of Harry’s vision were blurred as he frantically turned his head side to side, trails of white light following his line of sight, like a hallucination. He was in a large, elegantly furnished bedroom, but it was cold and sterile, like a museum. Slytherin robes were tossed on the black velvet armchair in the corner; potions books stacked high on the desk. 

There was Draco, dressed in a fitted black suit, splayed out on his bed. His nose was bloodied, bottom lip split, shirt rumpled, hair askew. His grey eyes bulged with the rawest terror Harry had ever seen, fixed on something across the room.

The reality of Harry’s present situation suddenly dawned on him: he was a voyeur in Draco’s nightmare, the horrors of which were unfolding in his childhood bedroom.

Harry turned, his gut churning. A tall, dreadful, unmistakable presence approached Draco, looming over the bed as Draco struggled to crawl away. Harry’s heart nearly stopped beating at the sound of Voldemort’s booming, mirthless laugh, something that he’d never thought he’d have to hear again. 

“You always fight me, boy,” hissed Voldemort. Nagini slithered through Harry’s legs and curled up next to her master; Harry’s hand instinctively flew to his scar.

“P-please…” whimpered Draco, and Harry’s heart broke at the fear and defeat in his voice. He doubted that anyone outside this horrifying spectacle had ever heard Draco sound like that. “Please, don’t make me. Not again.”

There was that skin-crawling laugh again. “If I didn’t want your fight, I would just use the Imperius Curse. But I don’t have to, do I? You’ll do what I want without it.”

Harry reached for his wand, but it was nowhere to be found. Nearly blind with panic, he rushed towards the atrocity unfolding before him, yelling for Voldemort to stop and swinging his fists, but to no avail. His hands passed through the bodies and objects before him like those of a ghost, helpless, forced to watch as the Dark Lord roughly pulled Draco towards him by the shirt and ripped it open, sending buttons skittering across the floor. Draco was openly weeping now, shaking his head and desperately clutching and shoving at Voldemort’s wrists.

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked,” he sobbed. “My parents have done everything you’ve asked.”

Harry gasped as Voldemort hauled back and slapped Draco across the face, hard enough to send more blood spurting from his bruised nose. “Incredible. You still don’t seem to understand that I will have something if I want it, boy, and I want you. Just like this.”

Draco let out a broken cry as sticky rivulets of crimson dribbled down from his nose to his lips. He kicked his legs out as Voldemort tore his trousers off, pants, too, stripping him naked. Harry was mortified to feel his cock stir at the sight of Draco’s long, lean body, but his blood froze in his veins when he saw the occasional thick, raised scar marring otherwise perfect, pale flesh--maybe the result of _Sectumsempra_ , maybe the result of whatever other untold horrors Draco had suffered in his young life, possibly both--and the bright, black Dark Mark, pulsing and thriving on his left forearm. Harry’s eyes burned with tears, guilt, shame, and ire coiling inside him like razor wire.

When Voldemort flipped Draco onto his stomach, Harry had to avert his eyes, searching frantically for any kind of escape to this hellish tableau. He couldn’t stop the tears from falling at the sound of Draco’s pained shrieks--he knew exactly what was happening, and he wished more than anything that he didn’t. He glanced up. Nagini wrapped herself around Voldemort’s leg as he held Draco down, one large, spidery hand splayed across his wrists, the other bearing down his head, pushing the side of his face against the duvet, so as not to muffle his anguished whimpers and screams. 

“Stop!” shouted Harry, pulling at his hair as wrath and despair welled within him in equal measure. “Make it stop, make it stop!”

The vision persisted still, a seemingly interminable exercise in ineffable cruelty. And the noises--Harry feared he would not soon forget the relentless creaking of the bed, Voldemort’s labored, wet breathing, the sickening squelch of bodies joining by force...and Draco never stopped begging for him to stop, though eventually the fight did leave his body and he laid there limply, crying as Voldemort held him down and fucked him, until--

“Oh, now you’ve taken all the fun out of it,” taunted Voldemort, stroking a deceptively gentle hand over Draco’s hair before he produced his wand. Bile rose in Harry’s throat as he pointed the wand at Draco and hissed, “ _Crucio!_ ”

Harry fell to his knees at the inhuman, guttural sound of pure agony that tore itself from Draco’s throat as he thrashed on the bed, back arching, hips bucking, fingers twisting in the sheets until his knuckles turned white--

Harry screamed through his tears, “Wake up, Draco! Wake up! None of this is real, you’re safe! You’re safe!”

Just like that, the pressure behind his belly button was back, and Harry was pulled out of the nightmare. He was back in 12 Grimmauld Place, sitting on the guest room bed next to Draco, whose eyes flew open as he gasped, “ _Harry!_ ”

He clutched desperately at Harry’s arms, nails scratching pink lines into the skin there, but Harry couldn’t have cared less. 

“It’s all right,” said Harry, voice cracking as he stroked Draco’s face and hair with tremulous fingers. “You’re safe, I’m here. You’re safe.”

Draco’s unfocused eyes rolled in their sockets, still wild with fear. “You're here,” he repeated, dazed. “I’m here.”

“That’s right.”

Finally coming back to himself, Draco craned his neck and let out a dismayed sob at the sight of the wet bed sheets. He let go of Harry’s arms and covered his face with his hands.  
“You saw...you saw, didn’t you?” he whispered bitterly, curling in on himself. 

Harry considered his next words carefully. If he lied, he’d...well, Draco would be able to tell right away. Harry was a piss-poor liar. Besides, there was absolutely no way that he could act like he hadn’t seen what he had. 

“I did see,” he replied quietly. “I don’t know how, but I saw.”

A shudder wracked Draco’s body as he let out a heart-wrenching sob, and then another. A dark look crossed his face and he glared at Harry. “Don’t you fucking look at me like that, like-like…” The wrath there faded as quickly as it had appeared and he choked, “Oh, fuck me. You must think I’m just disgusting, bloody pathetic, to have a-allowed him to do that to me…”

“No! Merlin, no, I don’t think that at all, not at all,” Harry replied quickly. With no further thought, he laid down beside Draco, uncaring of the drenched sheets as he carefully held Draco’s trembling body, running a gentle, soothing hand up Draco’s arm, his forehead pressed to the nape of Draco’s damp neck, tears streaming quietly down his face as he listened to Draco gasp and sob. 

They stayed like that for some time, could have been minutes, could have been hours, but Harry held him until he stopped shaking.

“Hey,” he said softly, releasing Draco and sitting up. “There’s a tub in my bathroom. I’ll show you where it is, if you’d like. You can have a bath, if you want. Might be relaxing.”

Draco twisted his torso slightly to look at Harry. There was that look in his eyes: open, sorrowful, and trusting, and for one insane moment, Harry had the most confounding urge to lean forward and and kiss his tear-stained face, tell him everything would be all right, that no one would ever touch him like that again, not while he was here. Not while he was with Harry.

Instead, he said, “You know, bed-wetting is a symptom of complex post traumatic stress disorder.”

Draco covered his face with a groan and pressed his knee against Harry's thigh, steadily pushing him off the bed. “Merlin’s great sodding beard, not this again, Potter. If you're going to give me another lecture about Muggle mental disorders, you can fuck right off.”

“All right, hey! All right,” said Harry softly, gently pushing his leg back in order to regain his position on the mattress. “I’ll shut up about it. For now.”

“Thank the stars for small victories.” The beginnings of a weak smile pulled at Draco’s lips. “Will you show me where it is, then? The bath?”

Harry returned the smile. “Yeah, come on.”

He led Draco into the hallway and through his bedroom, into his own personal en suite bathroom. Flipping on the lights, Harry twisted the spigot, filling the bathtub with hot water. He opened the linen closet to reveal a bounty of exquisite, high-end bath products. Hermione had bought them from a Muggle cosmetics shop when she’d realized that he had a full-sized bathtub. She’d said that they were for her to use when she stayed over, but if Harry wanted to use one or two or all of the things, then he should go right ahead. 

“You can use anything you’d like,” said Harry, gesturing to the arsenal of delicious-smelling soaps and salts and melts and oils and cakes and bath bombs. 

Draco regarded him incredulously. “Are you serious? I never would have...in a million years, I never would have pegged you for a bubble bath enthusiast, Potter.”

Harry chuckled and shook his head. “No, I suppose it is a bit surprising. Hermione gave them to me, and I always forget that I have them.”

“Sure, blame it on _Hermione_.” Draco’s eyes glittered as he bit back a little laugh, and for a split second, Harry completely forgot what he was doing.

He glanced at the tub, seeing that it was nice and full, and turned the spigot off. With a tight smile, Harry sidestepped Draco and reached for the doorknob to leave. He was stopped by long, clammy fingers circling his wrist.

“Stay?” asked Draco, uncertain, eyes flitting about the room. “I...I don’t want to be alone.”

Stunned, Harry stared at him. No matter how bizarre the request, Harry didn’t have it in him to deny Draco anything. “Y-yeah, all right, sure.”

He pulled the stool from the vanity and sat at the side of the bathtub. Draco shifted his weight and mumbled, “But, er, could you…”

“Ah. Right. Sorry.” Harry’s face burned as he turned his back to give his guest some privacy. Again, he was struck by how absolutely surreal the last handful of days had been. If someone had told him last week that he’d be willingly keeping Draco Malfoy company while he took a bath in _his bloody bathtub_ , Harry would have laughed in their face. 

Harry heard the soft, wet thud of Draco’s soiled clothing hitting the floor, then there were three light steps, and a few little splashes as Draco settled into the tub. A fizzing sound indicated that he’d chosen a bath product to his liking; the scent of blackberry ginger hung in the air a few seconds later. Harry smiled inwardly; that scent suited him.

“You can, um, look now,” said Draco.

So Harry did. Draco was almost fully immersed in almost opaque, deep purple water, only his shoulders, neck, and head were visible. As Harry struggled to wrap his mind around the intimacy of the situation, Draco took a deep breath and slid down, dunking his entire head under water. 

When he resurfaced, his grey eyes were significantly brighter, though his face was still puffy from crying. He and Harry stared at each other for several moments before Harry tore his eyes away, warmth creeping up his neck. It was just the bathroom, he told himself. It was bloody steamy in there. 

Draco sighed and rested his head on the edge of the tub. Keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling, he said, “I suppose I ought to just tell you, now that it's happened to you, too. The terrible...the thing that happened, just now. It happened to my mum last month. She came into my room and I was, ah, dreaming, like I was tonight. You know, with the screaming and the...the pissing. She touched my face, trying to wake me, but instead, she saw what I saw. Like you just did.” He inhaled deeply and settled deeper into the tub. “Since then, I’ve been trying to figure out what caused it to happen. I still can’t tell you an exact reason, but it’s something to do with the strength of my magic combined with the intensity of the _trauma_.” Draco said _trauma_ like it was a curse, sour on his tongue. “But I _can_ tell you that her potions habit got worse after that, categorically.”

Harry leaned forward, curling his fingers over the edge of the tub. “So you think it’s your fault. Her...going to St Mungo’s.”

Draco shrugged and slid further down, so his chin slipped just below the purple water’s surface. “No, I know it’s my fault, Potter. The lot of it.”

There it was again, that ache in his chest, this time stronger by tenfold. Harry knelt beside him, resting his chin on the lip of the tub and looking Draco right in the eye. “But it wasn’t your fault. All right? None of it was. Not the war, not your mum’s addiction, not the-the rape. None of it.”

Draco’s bottom lip wobbled and he looked away. “Sod off, yes it was. It was all my fault. That night at Hogwarts, with...with Dumbledore. I didn’t--” He closed his eyes, releasing a single tear. “What you saw tonight, it happened right after sixth year. Was hardly the first time, but it was one of the worst times. All of my times...every time has been with him, like that. I didn’t want to, he just took it from me. I don’t know...I don’t _think_ Dad knew, but he might have. I know Mum didn’t. I didn’t want any of this...but f-fuck, did I deserve it.”

Draco was crying again. Harry’s mouth hung open, aghast at Draco’s stunningly awful confession, fresh tears brimming in his eyes at the resurrection of dark, loathsome memories that he tried to keep buried in the deepest recesses of his mind.

“You must hate me,” whispered Draco hoarsely, thin fingers piercing the water’s surface to cover his eyes. “You must absolutely fucking hate me.”

Harry sniffed much louder than he’d intended to and wiped his eyes. “I did, I did hate you. For such a long time. I thought you hated me, too.”

Draco let out a dismayed sob and moved to the opposite side of the bathtub to hide his face. Harry followed, still gripping the lip of the tub. “But I don’t, not anymore--I haven’t for some time. I know that wasn’t what you wanted, I know they made you do those things, that Voldemort threatened your family. I know you love your family, and you’d have done anything for them, right? You still would, right? I know I would.”

Draco turned to him, the vulnerability on his face setting Harry’s cracked heart on fire. Harry continued, “I don’t blame you.” 

“Why are you being so kind to me, after everything I’ve done?”

“You can really be so thick,” said Harry, attempting levity. “Because I understand why you did what you did. I understand you, like...like I think you understand me.”

Draco’s lips parted as the true weight of Harry’s words washing over them both, and then the distance between them was closing and purple water was sloshing all over Harry’s pyjamas as time slowed and Draco grabbed Harry’s face in his hands and kissed him, hard, on the mouth.

Synapses exploded in Harry’s brain, shock and excitement and confusion and arousal and more confusion warring within him as Draco kissed him. There was something fiery and desperate in his kiss, and Harry felt the ice that he hadn’t realized was encasing his heart melt as he covered Draco’s hands with his own and kissed back. Experimentally, he licked at Draco’s lips, nearly crying out with joy when he opened his mouth to let Harry slip his tongue just inside. Draco tasted like the faint remnants of firewhiskey, the mordant liquor of fresh tears, and under that was a warm, intoxicating sweetness that made Harry _burn_ from the inside in a way that he never had before. 

Draco finally parted their lips, not letting go of Harry’s face as he pressed their foreheads together, panting hard.

“Oh, wow,” sighed Harry, nuzzling Draco’s nose with his. He yearned to communicate something far more profound, but all he could manage was, “I was not expecting that to happen.”

“‘Yeah, wow,” murmured Draco, his breath hot against Harry’s lips. He pulled back. “Was that okay? I mean, did it...it was nice?”

Harry let out a breathy laugh and squeezed Draco’s hands. “Yes, it was really nice.”

Draco exhaled in relief. His face flushed. “It’s so nice...being touched. By someone who isn't hurting me.” He swallowed thickly. “It’s nice to be touched...by you.”

“I would never hurt you,” whispered Harry deliriously, every emotion he was capable of feeling rolling through him all at once, acutely aware of every last drop of blood thrumming through his veins. He stroked his thumbs gently over Draco’s exquisite cheekbones, feeling more alive than he had in years. Or ever. “I would never hurt you, never again.”

Draco kissed him again, so softly that Harry thought he might melt into a puddle on the spot. He pulled back quicker than Harry would have liked and looked up at him imploringly. “I’d like to get out now.”

Lightheaded and disoriented, Harry nodded. Right. He had completely forgotten that Draco was taking a bath. He pulled the plug from the drain and lifted the detachable shower-head, twisting the spigots until warm water streamed out. As the bath water slowly dwindled, Harry fought every one of his urges to gawk at each newly revealed expanse of gorgeous, bare flesh. Face burning, he turned to his side and held the shower-head out to Draco, not wanting to assume that their kiss had changed anything when it came to Harry seeing Draco’s body.

Draco’s _naked_ body. In Harry’s bathtub. Draco bloody Malfoy, who had just kissed Harry on the bloody lips mere moments ago.

Merlin’s fucking beard. 

“So when you’re ready to turn it off, you just…” Harry made a twisting motion with his fingers, willing himself not to look at Draco. “You just, er, turn it. Twist to the right. Right. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks,” said Draco. His hand brushed Harry’s as he took the shower-head.

Not wanting to unwittingly make an even greater fool of himself, Harry hurried out of the bathroom, heart racing. 

Bedlam laid waste to Harry’s rational mind as he waited for Draco to finish up, utterly incapable of processing what had just occurred. What...what did any of this mean? Had Harry not been misinterpreting things earlier, after all? Did...did Draco want to _date_ Harry? If not, well. He certainly _kissed_ like he wanted to date Harry. Was Draco even ready for that sort of thing, what with all that he’d been through? Was Harry? Would any of this ever work? Would any of this ever start making any sort of sense?

Maybe Draco ought to kiss him again, just to see if it answered any of these burning questions. 

Harry leaned against his bureau, breathing hard. This new reality was getting harder and harder to distinguish from dreams.

Draco emerged from the bathroom after an indeterminate amount of time, his entire body wrapped up in a thick blue towel. “Have you got any...any more spare pyjamas?” he asked, almost shyly, that fetching rosy blush coloring his cheeks. 

“Oh. Yeah.” Harry realized that he was out of pyjama bottoms, save the sweatpants that he was wearing, so he tossed Draco a tee shirt and shorts from his dresser. “Here. I’ll see to the washing tomorrow.”

Draco caught them one-handedly. “Thanks,” he said, disappearing back into the bathroom to change. 

Harry laid down and closed his eyes, every bone in his body suddenly burdened with a deep fatigue. Just as he was about to doze off, he felt pressure on the mattress, and when he opened his eyes, Draco was perched tentatively on the side of the bed, looking down at him inquisitively. Harry rolled onto his side to face him, eyes warm, and patted the space next to him.

Draco swallowed and averted his gaze. He slowly turned his left arm out, revealing the Dark Mark, brighter than ever, now visible thanks to his short sleeves. A lump formed in Harry’s throat.  
“I’m sorry. It’s just. I’m a mess. I’m...” A crease formed between his brows. “I’ll have this fucking thing forever, and I hate it, and I hate…” He trailed off, his voice quavering.

Exhausted and entirely too emotional for his liking, Harry stifled his nausea and wrapped careful fingers over the pulsating tattoo. He smiled slightly. “Don’t worry, it’s all right. It’s almost five in the morning, Draco. Let’s talk about it tomorrow. Er. Later.” He patted the space beside him once more.

Draco offered him a tired, grateful nod and slid gingerly under the sheets. He curled in on himself, unsure, like he was afraid to touch Harry. 

Well, fuck that. 

With a surge of courage, Harry pulled Draco close to him, pressing his chest and stomach to Draco’s back, snaking his arm around Draco’s narrow waist and threading their fingers together. Draco’s fingers were cold. 

All caution now scattered to the wind, Harry turned his face into Draco’s damp hair and took a deep, indulgent breath.

“Good night,” he murmured directly in Draco’s ear. “You’re safe.”

“Night, Potter,” Draco sighed, almost dreamily, tightening his grip on Harry’s hand. Harry closed his eyes, and in moments, he was slipping into the first sleep he’d ever shared with another person, cocooned in the heady scent of blackberry ginger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you that was rough! This chapter was difficult and cathartic as hell for me to write, so I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you for sticking with me on this wild journey. Chapter 6 will be up next weekend, if I can hold out that long. 
> 
> Feel free to loose all your feels on me in the comments, and don't be shy--come talk to me on the [Tumbles](http://hannibalssweaters.tumblr.com/), if you so desire.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tenuous new dynamic between Harry and Draco is tested by a misunderstanding, but they quickly learn the importance of communication...and the joys of physical affection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Caveat Lector***: one allusion to the traumatic flashback that's so quick you'll miss it if you blink, brief suicide mention, emotions, boys learning to communicate healthily, and a whole lot of fluff and porn.

Harry slowly blinked his eyes open, surprised to see slivers of sunlight streaming in through the curtains. He must have slept deeply. He must have also forgotten to enchant the room to prevent such a disturbance from filtering in.

This oversight was quite unlike him, but then again, the night before had been more than slightly...anomalous.

Memories of everything that had happened came flooding back to Harry like tidal waves. Making dinner. The hug. The...feelings about Draco. The insomnia. The firewhiskey. The screaming. Harry’s breath caught in his throat. The nightmare, and the terrible new knowledge that accompanied it. 

And then, of course, there was the bath, and the conversation, and---the kiss. 

_Draco Malfoy had kissed him._ And he had kissed back!

Harry had never really given much thought to being interested in other boys, only in that he had always known that he was, and that he didn’t really feel any type of way about it. It didn’t confuse him, and it always seemed like such a silly thing for him to be bothered about, seeing as he’d spent the years of his sexual awakening facing challenges of a far grander scale. Sure, he’d gotten tongue-tied plenty of times around the Gryffindor Quidditch team captain, Oliver Wood, especially when Wood sought him out for post-practice discussions in the locker room, towel slung low on his hips, skin pink from the showers. Viktor Krum (and his broad shoulders) had flustered him with more than just his athleticism and wizarding prowess during the Triwizard Tournament, and that time that Harry had walked in on Dean Thomas passionately kissing Seamus Finnigan in the common room just before the holidays that one year had left him feeling more than slightly warm. He just...liked boys as much as he liked girls, what was so hard to understand or accept about that?

This _thing_ with Draco, however….this was something different. It felt deeper than just _liking a boy_. Not only was Draco infuriatingly handsome (a fact that had never once escaped Harry), but he had also revealed a completely different side of himself to Harry, a side that he had somehow always known was there, but that he’d never expected to see. A side that Harry doubted many others, if any others, had seen. Draco trusted him, and for some reason, Harry felt like he might also be able to trust Draco. 

More confoundingly, and more pressingly, Draco had _kissed_ him last night, and then climbed into bed with him, and right now, Draco was wrapped around him _in his bed_ like some kind of ethereal, blonde octopus.

At some point in the night, Harry had rolled onto his back, legs spread wide, and kicked off the covers. This, however, hadn’t seemed to matter to his peculiar bedmate, who had adjusted in kind and was still sleeping soundly. His head rested on Harry’s chest, an arm curled around his waist, fingers softly gripping his shirt. His eyelashes were pale against his skin, lips parted ever so slightly, the worry lines usually so present on his forehead completely invisible. A little puddle of drool had darkened Harry’s shirt, but Harry couldn’t have cared less. Draco looked more peaceful than Harry had ever seen him. 

Overcome with a delirious sort of joy at the sight, Harry grinned and turned his face into Draco’s hair. Merlin’s beard, how did he smell so _good_? He shifted slightly to carefully wrap an arm around Draco’s shoulders, but he froze mid-shift, suddenly acutely aware of the persistent, all-too familiar throbbing sensation between his legs. 

Of bloody course. Here he is, trying to offer some comfort to Draco, maybe even ensure that he gets a restful sleep, and he gets a bloody boner. Of all the terrible timing! Not that it was entirely his fault, considering the unexpected turn that their dynamic had taken, and factoring in Harry’s general predisposition to this kind of morning affliction on top of that. Harry’s face burned as he squeezed his eyes shut, desperately willing his uninvited hard-on away. That would be the last thing Draco needed to wake up to, especially after the horrors that Harry had witnessed the night before. 

Lamentably, it seemed as though his erection was here to stay, no thanks to the warm, omnipresent press of Draco’s body against Harry’s. Harry shifted slightly again; his eyes flew open at the unexpected, unnerving, and terribly arousing sensation of Draco’s own morning problem poking at his hip.

This...well, this was a possibility that had completely escaped his foresight. 

Harry laid there, unmoving, wide eyes glued to the ceiling as he struggled to process his current situation. Before his brain could function at anywhere near its full capacity, Draco was stirring.

With a theatrical, loud yawn, Draco turned his head to rest his pointy chin on Harry’s chest and blinked up at him with sleep-dazed eyes. “Oh. Morning, Potter.”

Harry stared down his nose at him and smiled, praying that his blush had relented. “Morning, Malfoy.”

Draco smiled too, and then he was moving to sit up, but he stopped dead when his slim thigh brushed against Harry’s erection. His lips parted as he stared at Harry, bewildered, crimson blooming on his pale cheeks.

“Oh,” said Harry lamely, in an attempt to remain nonchalant, though he was wondering which would happen first: the skin on his face melting off and dripping onto the sheets, or his heart erupting in his chest, killing him instantly. “I, er. Uh.”

Draco’s deepening blush was not helping things, nor was the warmth of his thigh against Harry’s extraordinarily sensitive nether region. 

Floundering hopelessly, Harry tried, “I’m sorry,” but was cut off midway through by Draco unintentionally knocking the apology from his lips with a bony elbow jabbing into his sternum as he effectively hauled himself up Harry’s body for a kiss. 

Oh. _Oh._ So this was how it was going to be! Harry smiled into the kiss, breaking it briefly to grab his glasses from the bedside table, then wrapping his arms around Draco and kissing him more. Their kisses started small, tentative, then got a bit hotter, needier, sloppier, and then Draco slipped his tongue between Harry's lips and all Harry knew was the ache between his legs and the taste of Draco’s mouth. 

Draco pulled back, panting, a fucking vision with his flushed face and mussed hair. Harry was so glad that he had thought to put on his glasses. 

“Good morning, indeed,” said Harry, voice hoarse with lust. He knew he ought to steer the conversation in a different direction before things got too...hot and heavy. He also knew that he very much _wanted_ things to get hot and heavy, but his fear of Draco feeling obligated, or uncertain, or pressured into moving things along too quickly was so great that he forced himself to clear his throat and ask, “So, are you hungr--oh!”

Harry was suddenly flat on his back, synapses firing as Draco pushed his hands against his chest and climbed on top of him, straddling Harry’s hips with long, lovely legs. The head of Draco’s cock was poking through his boxers, bare and swollen and _dripping_. Harry groaned at the sight, desire coiling in his gut. 

“Famished, Potter,” said Draco, his voice cheeky and his eyes dark. He bit his bottom lip, the sinful sight of that plush flesh caught between white teeth setting Harry ablaze. “But I don’t want food.”

And then he had to go and say that. Every last drop of blood in Harry’s body was now concentrated in his cock, which was harder than it had ever been in his entire life, probably. Bloody hell, Draco looked perfect--it wasn’t right, how gorgeous he was, especially sitting astride Harry, with his face looking the way it did, the taste of his lips fresh on Harry’s tongue, and his _body_...oh, and now he was rolling his hips, and Harry arched into him with a gasp, nearly coming on the spot as his eyelids fluttered shut.

The sudden, unwelcome memory of Voldemort’s pale, veiny hands pressing down on Draco’s face and wrists to the point of pain flashed through Harry's mind, accompanied by the woeful sound of Draco’s voice, broken and resigned as he pleaded with Voldemort to stop. 

Pulled from the fog of his desire, Harry gripped Draco’s hips firmly, stilling his movements. 

Draco frowned, uncertainty evident in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Harry’s mind raced, still struggling to truly comprehend both the unbelievable sensations rippling through his body, as well as the sheer magnitude of what was happening. He’d never been much good at this, _talking_ , especially about his feelings, without it coming out all wrong. He swallowed thickly. “Draco, what...um. What do you want?”

Draco stared at him, that little crease between his eyebrows deepening more by the second.

Harry took a deep breath. “Are you...it’s just, I don’t think...maybe we shouldn’t…” He faltered, searching for the right thing to say. He didn’t want to fuck this up. 

It seemed that he already had. Draco’s face darkened, eyes icing over. He swung his leg over Harry’s hip and dismounted. “You don’t think we should _what_ , Potter? Do something that isn't cuddling and crying? What, you don’t want to touch my disgusting, damaged body? You don’t want to fuck me? Not after you’ve seen how _he’s_ had me?” Draco vaulted off the bed. 

“ _What?_ No! Merlin’s beard, no, not at all--” Harry was panicking, like he was watching something beautiful turn to ashes in his hands, not knowing how to stop it from slipping through his fingers. Draco was sneering down at him, arms crossed tightly over his chest. 

Hastily, Harry reached across the bed for him. “I--Draco, please, come on, I just don’t want it to be like I’m taking advantage, not so soon after--”

The energy in the room shifted drastically. Dark waves of fury rolled palpably off of Draco as he glowered down at Harry, uncrossing his arms and balling his hands into white-knuckled fists. “Oh, is that it, Potter?” he hissed. “You’d fucking ‘feel bad’ for me, like you’re fucking ‘taking advantage’ of poor, broken Malfoy? No, he can’t decide anything for himself, he’s just a _victim_ , he can’t possibly know what he wants. Pathetic, sexless little Death Eater Malfoy, who’s got complex post-fucking traumatic fucking _whatever_ Muggle disorder from taking the Dark fucking Lord’s cock up his arse. Fucking _spare_ me.”

“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong, I didn’t mean it like that,” tried Harry, wracking his brain for the words to fix something he had never meant to damage. He moved to stand, but Draco waved his hands wildly and Harry was forced back, hitting the mattress so hard that the wind was knocked from his lungs. 

“I don’t know why I’m surprised. _Saint Potter_. You can’t even shelve that Boy Who Lived, Saviour of the fucking Wizarding World nonsense in bed. Always the bloody hero, aren’t you, _Potter_?” spat Draco, just like they were back in school. Magic surged through him so intensely that the mirror on the wall cracked. Both boys turned at the sound, then Harry was struggling to sit up, but Draco turned up his nose and said, “Don’t bother trying it on again with me, Potter, I don’t want you or your bloody pity.”

Red tinted Harry’s vision as he rapidly lost sight of the point of their conversation and gave into his indignation. He threw his arms up in frustration and scoffed incredulously. “ _Me?_ Trying it on with _you?_ You kissed...you fucking _sat_ on me, Malfoy! What are you playing at?”

 

“What am I _playing_ at?! You could have _never_ endured what I endured, Potter,” shouted Draco, emanating such vitriol that Harry was nearly winded again with the force of it. “And it just kept _happening_ , over, and over, and over, and over, and over again, just like Muggles talk about their hell. That’s what it was like. I wanted to fucking kill myself, but I didn’t, did I?! Because then he would have won, wouldn’t he have?!”

Draco’s chest heaved as he drew a sharp breath. “I never knew...I never knew what it was like to be with someone who didn’t want to tear me apart, to destroy me from the inside out. Someone who just wanted me like...someone who wanted to...” He let out an angry, frustrated “ugh!”; Harry's books flew off his desk. “Fuck it, I just wanted to be with someone who wanted to be with _me_ and not...fucking...use me and torture me.”

Tears scorched Harry’s eyes as he stared at Draco, devastated. He opened his mouth to respond, to reassure him that yes, that was _him_ , that was what he wanted, too, but Draco turned on his heel and flung open the door. “At this rate, it looks like I’ll never know.”

With that, he slammed the door, the force of his wrath shattering the mirror into a million pieces.

********************

Harry tried to charm, hex, and even _Alohomora_ his way into the guest room, but it looked like Draco had implemented some of the stronger enchantments, and Harry was unable to conjure a counterspell. He was more than a bit peeved at Grimmauld Place for letting Draco’s magical abilities supercede his own, but he supposed that the house appreciated Draco’s lineage more than it appreciated Sirius and his final wishes.

Eventually, he grew tired and trudged downstairs, defeated. Kreacher had set aside two plates of breakfast. Harry scowled at the food like it had betrayed him and poured himself a hefty tumbler of firewhiskey. By that point, it was late in the afternoon, and Harry didn’t feel even slightly bad about how quickly he downed the potent drink. He poured another and sat at the table, stewing. He could defeat the most nefarious wizard of modern times before the age of 18, but he was still completely null when it came to anything relationship-related. 

That being firmly established, Harry did not think that Draco’s heated reaction was entirely warranted. He'd been so angry! It wasn’t as though Harry had said anything _bad_ or disparaging, he had just wanted to “check in” and make sure that they weren’t moving too fast. That’s what he was supposed to do, right? He wasn't just going rush into something with someone new--someone who just so happened to be his former enemy-- especially someone who'd lived through what Draco had, without at least attempting communication! How was it that even when he tried to do everything right, he still managed to fuck it all up?

Harry sipped his drink and replayed the events of the past day over and over in his mind. So much had changed. He now knew the surprisingly soft feeling of Draco’s lovely mouth against his own, the hard, lean press of his body...and he didn’t know what exactly was going on between them, or what it meant, but he knew that he sure as hell wasn’t ready to let it go. 

He also knew how it felt to have his heart and soul incinerated by the ire and humiliation in Draco’s eyes, the way he had shaken with rage, the powerful magic that had surged within him. In addition to being horrible to experience on the receiving end, it was also humbling and awe-inspiring to behold his power.

As if that weren’t enough, Harry couldn’t unsee the horrors of Draco’s nightmares, unfolding in his mind’s eye over and over again. How many times had Draco laid in his bed, or hidden in his room, waiting, terrified, praying that the night would pass without an unwanted intrusion? 

Suddenly, it dawned on him. He smacked himself on the forehead hard enough to hurt. Draco wanted the same damn thing that Harry did--to be defined by neither the war nor his traumas, to not be looked as _other_ , to pick up the pieces and move on to whatever was next without his history and the accompanying shame and pity of others licking at his heels.

In his attempt to care for Draco and be mindful of his...experiences, Harry had treated him the same way others--including his well-intentioned but misguided friends--had treated him, walking on eggshells, like he might not be stable enough to be trusted with his own needs and feelings. He knew just how infuriating that was.

And now, he knew just how easy it was to fall into that pattern of behavior. 

How could he have been so stupid?

In all fairness, he and Draco didn’t have the best track record when it came to trust, but Harry was determined to leave the past where it belonged--behind him--and move on.

Overwhelmed by the sudden urge to explain himself to Draco, to profess his understanding and his...however he felt, Harry downed his second glass and marched back upstairs. With a deep inhale, he gave Draco’s enchantments another go. When that inevitably failed, he banged on the door, shouting Draco’s name, paying no mind when Kreacher stuck his head around the corner to peer curiously at him. Alas, it was useless.

With a sigh, Harry accepted that Draco wanted nothing to do with him at the moment, and he needed his space. It was harder for Harry to give him his space now than it had been a couple of days earlier, when Draco had lost it over whatever was in that infernal mystery letter that he’d received.

This difficulty probably had something to do with the fact that they were apparently kissing each other now, and having rows like old married couples. 

Harry’s temples throbbed dully. This was too much. He padded downstairs and heated the breakfast plate, though it was nearing 4 PM. 

He poured a third glass of firewhiskey to chase away the ache in his chest as he ate alone in silence. He wondered if Draco would still want to go to Diagon Alley with him after all this. Then he wondered if Draco would ever come out of his room, or if he and Grimmauld Place would conspire to find a way to magic him elsewhere without ever saying goodbye.

Dread settled in his gut at the hateful thought, like a frigid anchor. He set his plate in the sink and peered through the window at his garden. It looked quiet and inviting, bathed in the soft colors of early twilight, offering him more comfort than the empty, darkening kitchen. Harry topped himself off, slid into his gardening clogs, and took his whiskey, his gardening tools, and a basket for fresh produce outside. 

Harry was on his knees in the dirt, shears in hand, clipping ripe red tomatoes from their vines when he finally heard soft footsteps in the grass. Not wanting to scare Draco away with his enthusiasm, he kept his back turned until he heard an uncomfortable _ahem_ just behind him. 

Draco was in a pair of black sweatpants and the same soft tee shirt that he’d slept in, shifting his weight and keeping his eyes fixed on the tall tomato vines. There were several seemingly interminable moments of silence before they both spoke at once. 

“So about earlier--” started Draco just as Harry said, “I think I can explain--.” They both huffed out little laughs, and Harry sat back on his heels and looked at Draco expectantly.

“I’m...sorry about earlier,” he said, looking Harry in the eye. Harry made a noise of protest, but Draco held up his hand. He walked over to Harry and sank to his knees beside him. “But you must understand, I’m not what happened to me. I _am_ sorry that you had to see it, and I wish I could take that back. But that’s not me, and I’m not broken. Well, maybe I am, but it’s not forever. I'm not made of bloody glass. I thought you...I think you understand that. Do you?”

Harry nodded and set the shears down. Draco smiled tightly and continued, a little unsteadily, “You’ve been so...you just let me into your home, _me_ , of all people. You just let me stay with you, you don’t even care that I keep pissing the bed and waking you up with my nightmares. You’ve been beyond k-kind to me, though you’ve had no reason to be. In fact, you’ve had every reason to turn me away, tell me to fuck off, but for some reason, you haven’t yet.” He looked away. “So...I’ll give you an out. Do you want me to go?”

Harry peeled off his gardening gloves and tossed them aside. He reached out to gently touch Draco’s hands, which he twisted anxiously in his lap. Harry forgot everything that he had rehearsed in his head earlier and replied, “Are you mad? No, I don’t want you to go, I want you to stay!”

Draco’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really? After I sort of...lost my mind in there?”

Regaining himself a bit, Harry smiled and replied, “Yes, even though you lost your sodding mind. I get it. I know I was...well, I know how it feels when people don’t trust you with your own feelings, like you’re too fucked up to know what’s good for _you_. I wasn’t trying to do that earlier, I just wanted to...well, I know it came across differently, but I just wanted to make sure you weren’t doing anything you didn’t really, really want to do. That’s all.”

A look passed across Draco’s face that made Harry want to kiss him. 

_Not yet._

Harry continued, “I’m not much good at...this.” He gestured between them. “Merlin’s beard, I don’t even know what _this_ is, but I do know that I like it. I like seeing this side of you, and I like having you here. With me. I like…” He bit his lip; his face had grown hot. “I like kissing you. I think...I think I just like you. Now that you’ve stopped trying to sabotage me at every turn.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now. 

Harry smiled too, but he needed to say one last thing. Thank the stars for the courage borne of firewhiskey. “I know this is new for me, maybe it is for you too, and this is all weird, it being after the war, figuring it all out...getting back to normal, all this with you and me. But Draco, I’m never just going to plunge into anything, especially anything phys-physical, without making sure that I have your consent. I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, ever. And I also, um. I don’t really know what I’m...doing when it comes to, er…” Shit. Draco’s eyes were shining mischievously, a laugh barely restrained by his lips. 

Now Harry was just embarrassing himself. He continued hastily, “The point is, you need to trust me, and we need to figure out how to...we need to figure this out. By talking. I’d really rather us not learn at your expense. Or mine,” he added thoughtfully. 

“But you have to trust me, too, then,” said Draco, a bit sharply. “You can’t bring Saint Potter into...this.”

Irritation at the biting nickname flared in Harry, but he chose to set that battle aside. “All right, but you can’t just fly off the handle and go breaking mirrors and screaming horrible things at me every time anything a bit awkward or contrary happens. You have to talk to me. _Actually_ talk to me. You started to, which is brilliant, but I want it to continue.” He paused, and went for it. “You could also, I dunno, tell me what was in that bloody letter at some point. Believe it or not, I might be able to help you with it.”

Draco looked away, his expression darkening a bit. Harry quickly followed up with, “You don’t have to now or anything, but maybe tomorrow. Or in two days or something. I dunno. Something to mull over.”

Draco nodded cautiously. “I’ll think about it.”

Harry smiled. “All right. So, is this done, then? Can we, er, can we kiss now?”

Blushing furiously, Draco nodded. Harry leaned in, lips parted in anticipation, but Draco hesitated at the last minute. He frowned. “You’re not...are you drunk?”

Harry glanced to his empty glass, forgotten next to the basket of tomatoes. “Er. Not really. A bit buzzed, maybe. I had three glasses.”

Draco smirked. “All right, good. I took three shots before I could even bear the thought of coming out here, so we’re even.”

Harry shook his head and yanked Draco towards him by the shirt, crushing their lips together. Harry lit up from within as Draco deepened the kiss, squeezing his shoulders and plunging his tongue into his mouth, then he was pushing Harry down into the dirt and lying on top of him, a mirror of their morning, but without the strife. 

Harry felt ten thousand times better as he hungrily kissed back, now that he had said his piece and Draco was still interested in doing this with his mouth and _that_ with his hips, his hands running up Harry’s sides and through his hair, and Harry wanted to drown in him. 

“Potter,” breathed Draco, rolling his hips and clutching Harry’s shirt. “I _need_ to get off. Now.”

“Bossy,” laughed Harry breathlessly, but he nodded vehemently in assent. With a lascivious smile, Draco closed his eyes. One nauseating _whoosh_ later, they were in Harry’s bedroom. Draco had apparated them there. 

Harry narrowed his eyes, momentarily indignant. Grimmauld Place _was_ on Draco’s side. He’d have to remember to be miffed about it later, because Draco was stripping him out of his clothes, and all Harry could do was stand there and let him pull his shirt off and push his sweatpants down, taking his underwear with them. Then Draco was kissing him and his hands were everywhere, reverently rubbing Harry’s low abdomen, his back, up and down his arms....

Harry was so hard he thought he might pass out from lack of blood flow in his head, but instead he kissed Draco back and pushed his pants down to join his own on the floor. Nearly blind with lust, Harry backed Draco up against the bed yanked his shirt off with such force that it tore down the middle, baring gorgeous, scarred flesh. 

Draco gasped and looked down, eyes wide. Harry’s face burned at the evidence of his desperation, but he let out a nervous chuckle and shrugged.

Then Draco was laughing too, a genuine laugh, it could have even been classified as a _giggle_ , and Harry decided in that moment that he would dedicate himself entirely to making Draco laugh like that again, preferably as often as possible. They laughed into an awkward kiss, teeth clacking together, but Harry bit down on Draco’s bottom lip and pushed his torn shirt off and laid his hands on his beautiful bare chest, and they weren’t laughing anymore.

Harry gently pushed Draco onto the bed and climbed on top of him, heart pounding. He let out a loud groan when Draco shifted and their cocks brushed together, because _fuck_ , Draco was so fucking hard, too, and sparks licked up Harry’s spine as his cock swelled further.

“I’ve never done this before,” he murmured against Draco’s lips.

“Me, neither,” sighed Draco, planting a sloppy, wet kiss against Harry’s neck. “Not with someone I wanted to do it with, anyway.”

Harry’s heart ached. He brushed a stray hair from Draco’s forehead and pressed their hips together, relishing in the way he shuddered beneath him, the way his nails dug into the skin of his arm. He gently kneed Draco’s thighs apart and rolled his hips again.

“Is this good?” he asked, sucking a little lovebite into the side of Draco’s pale neck. 

“Yeah,” groaned Draco in response. “Yes, but it’s not…hmm, give me more.”

Possessed entirely by the heat in his chest and gut, Harry kissed Draco’s neck again, then his collarbones, and then the scar just above a sweet, pink nipple. He sucked Draco’s nipple into his mouth and gently nibbled on it, considering it a personal triumph when Draco shivered and gasped, “Fuck!” 

Making a mental note to return to that place later, Harry trailed his hands and mouth down Draco’s trembling torso, pouring his apologies and adoration into every thick, raised scar with his lips and tongue. Draco was making the most delicious noises as Harry worked, thrusting his hips, desperate for contact, and Harry’s vision almost whited out at the sensation of Draco's cock smearing hot fluid against his flesh. 

Delirious, Harry grabbed Draco’s left arm and turned it over, revealing his Dark Mark. Draco’s moan caught in his throat and he craned his neck, worrying his lip between his teeth. Harry held his gaze as he pressed a kiss to it, simultaneously wrapping his free hand around Draco’s cock and giving him an experimental tug. It was much different than touching his own cock, Harry noted hazily. Draco was just a bit smaller than he was, but so much hotter, so much wetter, and he was so fucking _responsive_ , and Harry kissed the foul thing on his lovely arm once more and Draco let out a little sob and covered his face with his free hand. Harry’s focus narrowed as he moved his lips to Draco’s wrist, sliding his fist up and down his length, squeezing experimentally, and relishing in the hot bursts of fluid that steadily leaked into his hand. 

“Potter,” gasped Draco. Harry flicked his wrist and Draco let out a sweet little whimper, followed by a more urgent, “ _Potter_.” 

Reluctantly, Harry stopped his ministrations and gazed expectantly at Draco. He looked fantastic, of course, but this might have been Harry’s favorite iteration of him yet--his chest, neck, and face were flushed deep red, his forehead beaded with sweat, lips more plush and swollen than usual from the kissing and biting, his eyes were dark and glazed over with pleasure...all this and, of course, the fact that he was stark naked.

“Tell me what you want,” murmured Harry, mouthing at Draco’s pointy hip. Keeping his eyes trained on Draco’s face, Harry trailed teasing kisses across the flesh of Draco’s low abdomen, stopping to nuzzle the dark blonde hair just above his cock, inhaling deeply. Fuck, Draco even smelled good there--Harry felt dizzy, mouth watering, suddenly stricken by the overpowering desire to taste.

Harry stuck out his tongue and licked the slick tip of Draco’s cock.

“I want..ah, _fuck_!” Draco let out a desperate moan and convulsed, spreading his legs wide. 

Spurred on by Draco’s wonderful little noises, Harry continued, licking down his shaft to his balls, then back up, lapping up every bit of fluid that he could before parting his lips and sucking Draco into his mouth.

“Fucking hell!” Draco cried, a desperate hand fisting in Harry’s hair. 

Harry pulled off, letting him slide from his mouth, and glanced up at Draco’s face.”Does it feel good?”

“Yes!” came the immediate response, the hand in his hair pushing Harry’s head lower. “Get on with it, Potter, please!”

Harry bit back a smirk. _What a tosser_. As he moved to lower his head, Draco sat up, grabbed his hand, parted his lips, and took two of Harry’s fingers into his mouth. Harry watched, awestruck, as Draco held his gaze, his cock pulsing sympathetically at the sight of Draco sucking on his fingers, drooling so much that saliva trickled down onto his hand before pulling off with a groan.

“Your fingers,” he said, insistently guiding Harry’s hand down to the base of his cock, then lower, behind his balls. Fire pooled in Harry’s belly he looked up at Draco and rubbed the wet tip of his index finger inquisitively against his tight hole. 

“Yeah?” he asked breathlessly.

Draco bit his lip and nodded. “Yeah.” 

He let his head loll back as Harry shuddered and rubbed him a bit more insistently. The muscle yielded slightly, accepting the tip of Harry’s finger, then a bit more. Draco groaned in pleasure, and Harry bent his head and sucked Draco’s cock back into his mouth. He tasted fresh arousal on his tongue at the same time that his finger slid all the way inside of Draco’s hot, tight hole. 

“Yes--oh, fuck, yes, there--that’s it!” Draco gasped, like he was surprised, his thighs quivering under Harry’s free hand. He fisted his hand in Harry’s hair, his desperation making Harry acutely aware of his own arousal leaking onto the sheets as he began sliding his finger in and out of Draco’s body, and suddenly, the most important thing in the entire world was making Draco come.

Draco hooked a sweaty knee over Harry’s shoulder and rolled his hips, his heel sliding against Harry’s back. When Harry pushed his middle finger in to join his index finger, Draco let out a long, ecstatic moan that made every hair on Harry’s body stand at attention. “Oh fucking hell, it feels so good! How does it feel so fucking good?” he cried, voice breaking. 

Harry sucked in earnest, driven to the brink of insanity by Draco’s exaltations and the trembling, sweaty mess of of his gorgeous body, the taste of his cock, the feeling of the searing hot muscle clenching around his fingers, then Draco was pulling on his hair feverishly and bucking his hips, nearly choking Harry as he let out a continuous stream of incoherent expletives and desperate, loud, sobs, until finally he let out a cry of, “Fuck, I’m--ah, _Harry_!” and the hot, copious spurts of Draco’s gorgeous, lengthy orgasm filled Harry’s mouth. It was a strange sensation, but incredibly hot, and Harry sucked voraciously and swallowed until nothing was left and Draco was emitting strangled little whimpers.

Overjoyed that he had managed to get Draco off, and now aching for his own release, Harry slowly slid his fingers out of Draco and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. He crawled up Draco’s trembling body, planting small kisses on every bit of overheated, sweaty flesh he could find along the way. 

His heart nearly stopped in his chest when he saw that Draco’s face was wet with tears.

“Draco?” he asked, mildly alarmed, brushing the hair off his forehead. “Are you all right? Did I...did i hurt you?”

Draco sniffed, scoffed, and threw his arm over his eyes. “For fuck’s sake. No, Potter. No. You didn’t hurt me. Quite the bloody opposite, in fact. I’ve never--it was just--hmm. Just wow. Fucking wow.”

Harry grinned and gently prised his arm from his face. Draco looked like some kind of debauched odalisque, with orgasm-flushed cheeks, hair askew, and red, kiss-swollen lips. His eyes lacked their usual cold edge. “It was really that good?”

Draco rolled his eyes and pulled Harry down for a kiss. Harry was surprised that he plunged his tongue between Harry’s lips, groaning as he tasted himself on his tongue.

“Now,” he breathed, eyes wicked. He snaked his hand between their bodies and cupped Harry’s aching, dripping cock, pressing just so. “Now it’s your turn.”

Harry groaned and nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes, please. But...hmm, don't laugh, I’m about to bloody burst.”

With a smirk, Draco pushed Harry onto his back. “Good,” he said, licking his lips, eyes flashing as he travelled swiftly down Harry’s body. Harry propped himself up on his elbows; he just had to watch.

“Fuck, you're gorgeous,” he panted, nearly fainting at the sight of that white-blonde head between his legs. Draco smirked again and pressed a kiss to Harry’s inner thigh, eliciting a full-body shudder, then turning Harry’s whole world inside out by parting his sinful lips and engulfing Harry almost entirely in his hot, wet mouth. 

Harry jerked forward and let out what was most likely an embarrassing noise, but he didn't care even a little. No one had ever done this for him before, and it was even more brilliant than he’d ever let himself imagine--and fuck, Draco was fucking _brilliant_ at it, and he certainly seemed to know what he was doing, at least way more than Harry did.

No, he was not going to last long at all, that was certain, between the unparalleled visual and aural aspects of Draco bloody gorgeous Malfoy sucking and slurping and drooling on his cock like it was an ice cream cone and the filthy, hot throb that radiated from between his legs all the way up his spine, and _oh_ , now he was doing something absolutely marvelous with his wicked tongue, and Harry was right on the cusp, yes, he was nearly there--

“Dr-Draco,” he moaned, twisting his fingers in damp blonde hair. “I'm...I’m gonna fucking come.”

Draco’s eyelids fluttered and he groaned, doubling his efforts. A wild, uncontrollable, searing heat was ripping through Harry like fiendfyre, and Harry was tossing his head back and crying out Draco’s name over and over, coming and coming and coming and _coming_ until he couldn't fucking come anymore.

Draco swallowed everything, and Harry thought he might come again when Draco looked up at him and lapped all the remaining semen from Harry's cock with obscene slurping sounds. 

“Come here, you,” said Harry hoarsely, patting the mattress next to him. The moment Draco laid beside him, Harry pulled him close and kissed him until they both had to pull back for air.

“That was...that was brilliant,” said Harry, kissing Draco’s damp forehead.. “To think, we could have been doing _that_ instead of fighting, all those years at Hogwarts.”

Draco smirked and rested his head comfortably on Harry's shoulder. “We were idiots.”

“Yeah.” Harry swallowed and carefully continued, “So it was nice for you, then?”

Draco snorted. “I just came in your mouth, Potter, so yes, I think it’s safe to assume that it was very nice for me.”

Harry blushed and rolled his eyes. “All right, well, I must be a natural in that case. I've never done that with anyone before, so…”

“I can confidently proclaim that you are, in fact, a natural cocksucker. A real ace. Well done, ten points to Gryffindor.”

Harry swatted his arm. “Only ten?”

“Fine, twenty.”

They laid there in companionable silence for a few moments, catching their breath. Harry kept thinking about how much he wanted to ask Draco what this all meant to him, but the words kept sticking in his throat. Maybe he was nervous because he was starting to truly understand just how much it meant to him, and what if it wasn't as deep for Draco? That thought trajectory was a house of cards too flimsy to blow on just yet. Instead, he said, “Hey, are you hungry? I'm starving. Did you eat earlier?”

Draco stretched his arms overhead and rolled out of Harry’s arms with a loud groan. “Yes, I'm bloody starving, and yes, I ate that food earlier. What else have you got to eat here?”

He looked at Harry suddenly with wide, panicked eyes. “Fuck! You wanted to go into Muggle London today, didn't you?”

Harry waved a dismissive hand. “Sod Muggle London; maybe we can go tomorrow.” He draped his body over Draco's and lowered his face close enough for a kiss. “Also, I don't really want to go too far from the bedroom tonight, do you?”

Draco’s eyebrows shot skyward and his face flushed again. He shook his head and said, “Well, er, now that you've put it like that...not at all.”

Harry winked in what he hoped was a saucy manner and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his bare feet mere centimeters from the mess of mirror shards that Draco had inadvertently created earlier. He sighed and shook his head.

“Careful where you step, _someone_ broke the bloody mirror and hasn't bothered cleaning it up yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I am a few days later than usual with the update, but last week got away from me, what with the jobs and the holidays and all. I hope the fluffy porn made up for my tardiness a bit. But HEYYY, they finally did it! Give me your feels about it in the comments, if you'd like--your feedback sustains my soul!
> 
> I'm going to attempt to edit and post the next chapter this weekend.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry and Draco are easily distracted, but they do manage to make dinner and have a long conversation about a lot of things, Kreacher gets more than he bargained for, Harry grapples with introspection, and the boys venture into London to visit Draco's mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caveat lector: Fluffy, graphic porn, angsty conversations, disturbing themes, uncomfortable situations.

Harry didn’t fully realize the significance of what had just happened between himself and Draco until about thirty minutes later. He was out in the garden, basket in hand, feeling more excellent than he had in months, maybe even years, humming a jaunty little tune as he dutifully retrieved the tomatoes that he’d abandoned so hastily earlier, when it hit him like a ton of bricks.

Harry had made his long-anticipated (and, in his opinion, long overdue) sexual debut with Draco bloody Malfoy.

 _Draco bloody Malfoy_ , who, it was worth noting, was grumbling to himself on the opposite side of the garden, impatiently plucking at a basil plant. He was bent over, a hand resting on his knee as he huffed through his nose and glared at the basil like it had offended him, overgrown hair still thoroughly mussed from their amorous activities. Harry shook his head at the sight, which he found quite endearing. 

It was alarming.

He also couldn’t help but notice that Draco’s round little bum looked more appealing than any ripe, juicy peach that Harry had ever seen. Merlin’s beard, it was _hot_ out here tonight. Harry bit his lip and tightened his grip on the basket, wondering what Draco would do if he walked up behind him, yanked his pants down, and stuck his face between his arse cheeks. He was momentarily caught between a strong urge to find out, and absolute mortification at the thought. It wasn’t like it was his fault, though, was it? Now that Harry knew how Draco looked and sounded in the throes of bliss, how was he ever meant to stop envisioning it over and over again, in all of its possible permutations?

He could hardly believe that it had happened at all. They had been so impulsive, so intense in the moment, but now it felt like a whirlwind. Harry wished he had paid more attention, committed more to memory, but at the time he’d been so laser-focused on his mission, which consisted of bringing a beautiful blonde prat to orgasm with zero prior experience.

 _But_ , he had succeeded. And Draco had more than succeeded in returning the favor, and now things weren't even a little bit awkward between them, they were just casually amassing ingredients for a supper that they were planning on cooking and subsequently eating together. It felt easy, _practiced_ , like they were a couple.

Harry nearly dropped the basket. Now _that_ was a thought that he had never once imagined entertaining, never mind the fact that it was indeed a very real option that was very much available to him. At least, he _hoped_ it was available to him. No, as strange as the concept was, he was absolutely not opposed to dating Draco. Especially not _this_ Draco, who was open and sensitive and communicative. Still a bit snooty, still a bit of a git, sure, but that didn’t change how Harry felt. Nor did it change that he would also very much like a repeat of what had just happened, another chance to see Draco come undone, to witness the way his pale chest flushed and heaved, the way his voice had sounded when he cried out his name, the way-- 

“Ugh, what? Don't tell me I've got to pick _more_.” Draco’s voice, dripping with disdain, startled Harry from his salacious thoughts. He was standing right in front of him, clutching a generous fistful of basil sprigs and wrinkling his pretty, pointy nose.

Harry let out a little chuckle. “No, don’t worry, you’re done. That's perfect.”

Draco crossed his arms and sighed in relief. “Thank the wizards of old. I'm about to bloody drop dead from starvation.”

Harry playfully bumped their shoulders together as he passed Draco. “Oh, please. Come on, let's go inside.” 

Stopping briefly to pick up one final tomato, Harry noticed the lush white petals of a moonflower beginning to unfurl. He’d have to remember to bring Draco out here at some point to show him the night blooming flowers. Draco seemed like the kind of bloke who would be into that sort of thing. Harry felt a rush of gratitude towards lovely, brilliant Hermione and her extensive herbology knowledge.

For dinner, they decided on a simple pasta dish that Harry practically knew by heart, spaghetti and homemade marinara sauce. Draco was proving himself to be both quite useful, making quick work of the necessary peeling and chopping and essentially taking control of the sauce, as well as highly distracting. Every time Harry looked over at him, Draco had to go and bite his lip, or give Harry a look that made his insides turn to mush, or some maddening combination of the two. 

Restraint became an obsolete concept to the both of them when Harry dipped a finger into the saucepan for a taste, to see if it needed more salt or garlic or something. It was innocent enough, but Draco’s eyes darkened as he watched him, and when he went for a final taste test, Draco grabbed his wrist and sucked the sauce off of Harry's fingers himself.

“Fucking hell!” gasped Harry, his mind fizzling at the sight. Draco’s lips and tongue most likely had magical properties of their own, seeing as how they immediately made Harry forget about everything else that was happening around him. 

Draco pulled Harry close and started kissing along his jawline, his fingers toying with the waistband of Harry’s sweatpants. Lust spiked Harry’s blood like firewhiskey, but the pasta pot was steaming, and the sauce that they had just so painstakingly crafted was starting to bubble from inattention. 

“Ah! Draco, this is…hmm, _yes_ , but just…” Flustered and rendered incompetent, Harry reached around his --boyfriend? Lover? Friend with benefits? _Enemy_ with benefits?-- his _Draco_ and hastily twisted the knobs, turning the stove off. “Now, I just have to dump the pasta before it gets all soggy, and then we really should eat, you were just complaining to high heaven about how hungry you--”

“And we _will_ eat,” murmured Draco hotly against Harry’s ear. “But you should make me come again first.”

Harry's vision nearly tunneled. He wondered fleetingly if he'd ever get used to hearing such lewd suggestions and obscenities in Draco’s posh accent, and decided firmly that he'd need to hear more of them to make a definitive decision. 

For now, Draco's lovely hand was in his pants, and he really _was_ making some excellent suggestions that Harry found absolutely impossible to refuse. Still, he managed to gently disentangle himself from Draco and hurriedly dump the pasta into the waiting colander. Maybe a bit too quickly: he hissed in pain as some boiling water splashed his hand. 

“For fuck’s sake!” Draco rushed over and took Harry's hand in his own. He turned the sink on and stuck Harry's hand under the jet of cold water, face screwed up in an annoyed concern that was so distinctly _him_.

Harry eyed him keenly, bewildered. This was very fucking adorable, in his opinion, and he didn't want to bring Draco's attention to just what a protective sap he was being for fear that he'd stop. It suited him. 

“Calm down, will you, I'm all right,” he said after a moment, laughing a little and drying his hand on a dish towel. 

“Good, clumsy git. Now, come here and touch me.”

How could Harry possibly turn down such an offer? 

“Brat,” he murmured, wrapping Draco in his arms and kissing him deeply, right there in the kitchen, shades open, candles burning brightly around them. In a whirlwind of fumbling hands and pesky drawstrings and hot, wet kisses, Harry picked Draco up and sat his lovely arse on the kitchen table. Nearly cross-eyed with lust, Harry sank to his knees. 

Draco looked down at him, stunned, and Harry was briefly struck by self-doubt. Was this _not_ how things were supposed to go? Had he been too forceful, too openly desirous? 

As though he sensed this, Draco reached down and gently cupped Harry’s jaw. His touch was hesitant, like maybe he was a little unsure, too, and when Harry looked up to meet his gaze, his eyes were shining. 

“I want you to,” he murmured, stroking a thumb across Harry’s cheek. He looked away. “Please.”

Harry exhaled shakily, doubting that anything on earth possessed aphrodisiac qualities as powerful as the sound of Draco Malfoy saying “please.” 

Merlin’s. Beard.

Newly emboldened, and determined not to rush things this time, despite the urgent throbbing between his legs and the nervous trembling in his hands, Harry decided to explore and experiment. Slowly. He stuck out his tongue and licked up the entirety of Draco’s length, from balls to tip, savouring his flesh like a rare delicacy. He applied pressure at different points, alternating between sloppy licks and hard sucks, need flaring in his belly when Draco spread his thighs and pleaded desperately for Harry's fingers. He murmured an unintelligible spell, and Harry's hand, forearm, and a decent portion of the kitchen floor were drenched in slippery lubricant. It would have been quite hilarious if it weren't so fucking _hot_.

Harry worked his fingers in slowly, breathing hard, relishing in the way lean thighs quavered beneath his hand, the intoxicating way Draco gasped his name--his first name--and the absolutely brilliant sight of his own fingers disappearing into Draco’s willing, pliant body. Harry wondered how it would feel to fuck Draco, to feel that searing tightness around his cock, but he had to immediately brush that thought aside in order to avoid ruining his pyjamas. 

Draco made a delectable little noise, and Harry's head snapped up to look at his face. He was gazing down at Harry, eyes dark and mouth open in a perfect little “o.” Harry met his eyes and held his gaze as he continued, spurred by the bountiful evidence of his lover’s arousal and the palpable energy crackling between them, until Draco’s eyes rolled back in his head and he clenched violently around Harry's fingers, which was so fucking sexy that Harry nearly came in his pants. 

No longer concerned with prolonging the encounter, Harry wrapped his free hand around Draco’s cock, slick with saliva and an absolutely obscene amount of pearly white arousal, and began to stroke him in tandem with the thrusts of his fingers. To his delight, Draco unraveled quickly, broken praise and beautiful little noises pouring from his lovely lips as he rocked into Harry's touch, shaking and gasping until he seized up and released so hard and so abruptly that some of his come splattered across Harry’s face and glasses.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, Harry wincing a bit at the feeling of hot, viscous fluid dripping slowly down his face. Draco clapped his hand over his mouth, eyes cartoonishly wide, then his shoulders trembled and he burst into gales of infectious laughter. Harry was laughing too, blushing as he stood between Draco’s limp legs. He leaned forward, bracing himself on the table to kiss Draco’s neck, purposefully nuzzling the fluid into his flesh.

“Ugh, Potter!” cried Draco in protest, but he leaned into Harry’s affection, sighing as he ran long fingers through Harry’s wild hair. 

Harry grinned. “This is entirely your fault, you know.”

“Disgusting,” he replied, releasing Harry’s hair and shoving him back so forcefully that he braced himself against the sink. Harry was ready to be cross about it, but there was no time for that--Draco practically leapt at him, dropping to his knees and using a mind-meltingly brilliant combination of his wonderful, gorgeous, _hot_ mouth and talented hands to bring Harry to an earth-shattering orgasm within minutes. Less than that, probably.

Harry stared at the dilapidated ceiling and gasped for air as he regained his faculties. He relinquished his white knuckle grip on the sink and looked down, where Draco was sitting back on his heels, still pantsless, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Once again...bloody brilliant,” he said softly, helping Draco to his feet and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. Warmth bloomed in his chest as he realized that yes, he was one hundred percent certain--he definitely wanted to date Draco Malfoy. 

“Eloquent as always, Potter.” Draco blushed. “But you’re certainly not wrong.”

With a chuckle, Harry turned and ran his cum-streaked glasses under the sink and wiped his face with a rag, which he dropped unceremoniously onto the counter. It certainly couldn't go anywhere near the dishes now.

Feeling relaxed, oddly clear-headed, yet famished, Harry conjured two bowls from the cupboard as Draco washed his hands. “You must be ready to eat now, yeah?”

 

“I've _been_ ready! I'm bloody starving,” replied Draco, sounding chagrined, like he hadn't just had an orgasm, as he took his seat at the table. He waved a hand, summoning two forks and two knives from the cutlery drawer. 

“How did you know…” Harry trailed off, narrowing his eyes. This bloody house.

Ignoring him, Draco asked, “Is there any wine in this place? If I have another sip of firewhiskey, I’ll fucking vomit.”

“Yes, there’s wine. It's in the cellar, if you'd like to fetch it.”

“Brilliant.” Draco closed his eyes. “Accio cellar wine. Red. Preferably a Bordeaux.”

Harry snorted as he ladled generous spoonfuls of sauce atop large portions of fresh, steaming spaghetti. There was no way--

No, he was wrong. There was, in fact, a way. The cellar door flew open and a dusty bottle of something that looked as though it had been in the basement since Sirius’ childhood flew through the air and into Draco's outstretched hand.

Draco smirked triumphantly at Harry and uncorked the bottle with a flick of his wrist. “The wine has been fetched, where is the food? What on earth are you even doing over there?”

Harry just rolled his eyes as he garnished both bowls with fresh basil and Parmesan and brought them over to the table. “Here you go, eat up.”

Draco inhaled deeply. “Smells bloody fantastic. Someone did a great job with the sauce, my compliments to him.”

Harry smiled and poured them both hefty glasses of Bordeaux. Draco clucked his tongue in protest. “We should have decanted this.”

“I don’t know about you, but I sure as hell am not waiting for it to ‘breathe’,” said Harry, turning up his nose snootily and lifting his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Draco, clinking Harry's glass. He hummed in pleasure as he sipped the wine delicately. “Sod the decanter, this is fantastic.” He squinted at the bottle’s label. “Oh, I know this vineyard. Wizard owned and operated, of course. My father buys this stuff by the crate. At my fifteenth birthday party, we--”

Draco abruptly stopped talking, wilting where he sat. Harry frowned, but didn't say anything, even though he was morbidly curious about what a Malfoy birthday party would entail--black balloons? An eight-course meal comprised of small-serving delicacies from around the world? He couldn’t even begin to imagine.

It seemed as though the birthday story would have to wait. What Draco was saying had finally caught up with him, and he’d realized that he very much did not want to discuss his father right now.

Harry certainly didn’t want to talk about Lucius Malfoy, he didn’t even want to _think_ about him. As far as he was concerned, Lucius was a bigoted blight, a man who had caused Harry--and countless others--significant pain. A man who also, regrettably, he supposed, happened to be Draco’s father. Draco, whose name alone would have once inspired an ire so soul-crushing within Harry that he could barely speak for fear of spitting blood. Draco, with whom Harry had shared clothes, meals, tears, feelings, fears, kisses, and now a bed ( _and a kitchen table, too_ ), with whom Harry was strongly considering attempting some sort of romantic relationship... 

Hmm. It would certainly be _interesting_ to try to reconcile the messy-haired Draco in his kitchen with the little fucker he had grown up more or less loathing, Harry realized, dread curdling in his gut. At some point, if their relationship was going to continue along this most unusual trajectory, he’d have to deal with...Draco’s family, including his father, and that particularly unappealing reality.

His stomach lurched suddenly. No. He couldn’t go down this road right now. He wasn't ready to burst this nice, little bubble just yet. Instead, he stabbed at his noodles and spun them around his fork, coating them with sauce before slurping them noisily into his mouth. “This is brilliant,” he said around his mouthful of food, hoping to diffuse the tension. 

Draco scoffed and held up a hand. “Close your mouth while you chew Potter, for fuck’s sake.”

Harry grinned and sipped his wine as his unsavory thoughts grew smaller. “When _is_ your birthday, anyway?”

“June 5.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. He'd always thought of Draco as someone who'd have an autumn or winter birthday. Then again, he supposed if his birthday were during the school term, he would have bloody well known about it. “Really! Happy birthday, then.”

Draco blushed and looked down at his pasta. “Oh. Thanks.”

Harry reached across the table and took Draco’s hand. “Guess that means I ought to get you a present.”

Draco's lips quirked up in a bashful smile. “Does it, now?”

Harry waggled his eyebrows, eliciting that fucking adorable little laugh.

“Is the present...can it be sex?” asked Draco, eyes glittering as he sipped his wine.

Harry choked on his own drink. Draco looked pleased.

“Now don't go and spoil the surprise or anything,” said Harry, hoping he didn’t look as affected as he felt by that idea.

Draco laughed again and shook his head, but his cheeks were glowing. Harry wished he had seen this side of Draco so much sooner. Suddenly, his heart felt the weight of missed opportunities, of wasted years. 

If only Draco hadn’t been so much of a little cock, so keen on following in his bloody father’s footsteps, so adamant about fucking everything up for Harry all the time, and had focused instead on showcasing his sweeter attributes. They could have at least been friends, if not something more, and maybe Draco would have seen the error of his family’s ways sooner. Maybe he could have helped Harry, or helped the Order, or done _anything useful at all_. Anger quickly took the place of sadness, and Harry carefully averted his eyes, focusing on a particularly deep indentation on the table to calm himself, not wanting to accidentally lash out at Draco.

A piercing, anguished wail pulled Harry from his thoughts. A low din of disgruntled voices rose in its wake.

“What the fuck is that racket?” asked Draco, irritated, wiping a bit of wine that he’d spilled in surprise from the table. 

Harry groaned. It was coming from the cellar. “Oh, hell. It’s the bloody portraits. The entire Black family are none too pleased that I moved them all into the basement. Honestly, they’re none too pleased that I’ve been living here at all.”

“Ugh.” Draco made a face as the voices grew louder, more agitated. “They’re ghastly.”

“Kreacher usually keeps them in line, his presence is somewhat...pacifying, but I guess he’s not been down there today.”

“Kreacher would have gone down there this evening, but Master was rather...preoccupied with Mr. Malfoy in the kitchen at the time that Kreacher usually sees to these matters, and Kreacher did not wish to disturb.”

Both boys turned to the doorway to see Kreacher standing there with a bucket and rag, his expression more sour than usual. Harry felt mildly panicked. Did that mean that Kreacher had heard, or _seen_ them earlier? He had been so overcome with desire that he hadn’t even thought about that possibility, which now seemed so obvious that he could have smacked himself in the face for missing it.

Kreacher’s frown intensified. “Kreacher will see to the cellar now, Master. Hopefully when Kreacher’s task is finished, Kreacher will be able to pass through the kitchen...uneventfully.”

Heat crept up Harry’s neck. “You know, you've only to say the bloody word and I'll give you your clothes. You can carry on living here, if you'd like, but free, without having to worry about ‘Master this’ and ‘Master that,’ or seeing things that you don’t want to see.”

Harry had tried to free him time and time again, but to Kreacher, as to most house elves, that freedom was not a promise, it was a threat, which Harry had finally accepted. Kreacher scowled and disappeared into the darkness of the cellar, closing the door behind him. 

Harry turned back to Draco, who had turned a brilliant shade of crimson and looked like he was barely suppressing a laugh.

“Well, shit,” he said simply, before bursting into giggles.

Just like earlier, Harry found himself powerless to the effects of that laugh. They laughed and laughed, carrying on until Harry had tears streaming down his face, his stomach hurt, and he was gasping for breath, feeling mildly embarrassed and silly and _alive_. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd laughed so hard.

“Poor, tired Kreacher,” said Harry when they’d finally stopped long enough to wipe their eyes. “I’ve tried to free him, I really have. Told him he’s welcome to stay here, too, but he just won’t have it.”

“Of course not. That’s how house elves are, especially house elves in the employ of families with a lineage like the Blacks.”

Harry refilled both of their glasses of wine. “You’re on the family tree here, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course you are. Obviously. I can show you, if you’d like.”

Uncertainty flickered across Draco’s face. “I dunno...maybe. Not now. I’m still hungry.”

“Yeah, same.” 

The conversation turned light and pleasant as they moved steadily through second servings and finished the bottle of wine, talking about tomato sauce recipes and Harry's garden. Just as Harry had thought, Draco wanted Harry to show him which plants were which, especially the non-magical ones, and he was extra interested in the night bloomers.

“I've been fucking about with plants too,” he said between forkfuls. “I've actually been brewing essence of dittany myself this summer.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Really? Isn't that stuff really hard to find?”

Draco nodded, dabbing his lips with a napkin. He closed his eyes, lifted a hand, and another expensive, dust-covered bottle sailed through the cellar door, though he was quick to wave the door shut this time. “Yes,” he said, a proud arch in his eyebrow. He uncorked the bottle and replenished their glasses. “Mum gardens, and we've had dittany in our plot for ages. Says she planted it before I was born.”

“Wow. Isn't it also quite difficult to distill?”

“Yes.”

Harry slurped down the last spaghetti noodles in his bowl. Draco made a disgusted noise.

“You always _were_ so good at potions,” said Harry, feeling a bit warm from the wine. “I was always so shit. Not shit, maybe, but not good. Maybe you could show me how. Did you bring your potions kit with you?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, why not?”

Draco looked away. “I smashed it.”

“What? Why?”

“It was kind of like earlier, with the mirror.” Draco took a long sip of his drink. “I didn't mean to, but it happened all the same.”

“It’s just a sign that you’re very powerful,” said Harry dreamily before he could get ahold of himself. Merlin’s great moldering beard, what was wrong with him! Quickly composing himself, he continued, “You still have to clean that up, by the way.”

“Have Kreacher do it.” 

Harry covered his face with a hand. “That poor elf.”

Draco swirled his wine before taking a sip, his face closing off a bit. “I used to be so good at compartmentalizing my emotions. The very best. It's why I excelled at Occlumency. Nowadays, though…” He scoffed. “I feel like a sodding little boy who doesn't know how to control his magic. It just...runs through me, and I can't help what it decides to do, and I _really_ can't help whoever it hits. My magic is...it's like a beast, and I can't seem to tame it, no matter how I try.”

Harry furrowed his brow. “Have you been to a healer? I know there are some who specialize in the rehabilitation and curing of the mind, and you--”

“I don't need one of those,” snapped Draco. “I'm talking to you, aren't I?”

Harry's heart soared at Draco's words, and he couldn't help but smile a bit as he replied, “Well, yes, and that's good, very good, I think, the talking. You and I.” He cleared his throat. This was a bit out of his depth. “But I don't have the training to really _help_ you with--”

Draco slammed his wine glass down so hard that Harry was surprised it didn’t shatter. “That's a load of rubbish, those healers. What, I’m just supposed to let some stranger root around in my brain, access all of my memories? They'd see _everything_ , and I just...well I can't bloody have that, can I! And who knows what they’d end up doing in there? I would leave more fucked up than when I came in!”

“Maybe not,” said Harry, trying not to take Draco’s loud, angry dismissal personally. “I think it would be worth at least exploring.”

“You should see one, too, then,” Draco shot back. “It's not just me. You're all fucked up, too.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. He _was_ all fucked up, and it was a good idea, one that both Ron and Hermione had not so subtly suggested several times. Being who he was, he had his reservations, just like Draco did.

“I might,” he said. He didn't look at Draco when he continued, “Maybe we could go together. You know, so you won't look like a sod sitting alone in the waiting room.” 

Draco’s face softened considerably. 

Harry shrugged and sipped his wine. “Something to consider.”

“You'd...do that for me?”

“Well, we’d be doing it for each other, wouldn't we?”

Draco eyed him like he was an indecipherable ancient rune, staring long enough for Harry to shift in discomfort, then proclaimed, “All right. I’ve decided that I’m going to tell you about the owl now.”

Harry’s eyes widened, astonished by the non sequitur. “I’m listening.”

Draco sighed and rubbed his temples. “I presume you know that my father is in Azkaban. Of course you do. You were at my trial. And my mum’s trial.” 

Harry nodded.

Draco took a long sip of wine. “The Ministry keeps delaying his trial, saying there's new evidence against him. They say he couldn't have possibly defected, with everything that’s come to light, and that he'd have to remain in Azkaban until they’ve examined all new claims against him. They won’t allow him any visitors, save the solicitor, of course, but they’ve banned him from speaking to me and Mum about what they discuss on his visits. It's rubbish, honestly. Dad _did_ defect, especially as V-V-” Draco let out a pained gasp, his eyes filling with tears at a startling rate.

Harry quickly reached across the table and grabbed Draco’s hand. “The Dark Lord,” he offered carefully.

Draco nodded and sniffed. He turned his hand over so Harry could interlace their fingers, which made Harry intensely happy, despite the context of the gesture. He nodded encouragingly and Draco continued, “Dad made it clear to me and Mum that he was quite disinterested in carrying on, what with the D-Dark Lord’s unseemly treatment, and continued d-d-degradation he was subjected to in front of the others. He didn’t like the way he used our home as a prison, a place for his inquisitions, the constant threats he made towards me and Mum.” 

He hesitated; his face paled like he was going to be sick. “Aunt B-Bella was furious when Mum tried to tell her. She wouldn't hear of it, even threatened to turn us in or kill us herself.” A tear ran down Draco’s cheek. Harry wiped it away.

Draco tightened his grip on Harry’s fingers. “She knew, of course. Aunt Bella. She’d seen...she knew about...about...she knew what he was doing to me.” His eyes darkened in a way that Harry had never seen, not even at the height of their rivalry. “She told me I should be _grateful_ , that it was an _honor_ to be so chosen by the Dark Lord himself, that I was _lucky_.”

He laughed humorlessly and downed his wine. “Can you fucking believe that? _Lucky!_ ”

“Fucking cunt,” spat Harry, his vision blurring with rage. He couldn’t believe it--she was Draco’s blood family! Sure, she was as batshit as they come, but she was still supposed to look out for him, to _protect_ him. But no, she had not only stood by while Draco suffered, but also known what was happening, maybe even encouraged it--

“Potter, sit down. She’s dead.”

Draco’s voice brought Harry back to himself. He realized he was standing, face screwed up in fury, hands balled into tight fists at his side. He sat down, still fuming.

Draco smiled sadly and poured them more wine with shaky hands. “I’ve never been happier about someone’s death than I was about hers. Well…not counting… you know...anyway. The point is, the name ‘Malfoy’ has been utterly, horrifyingly besmirched, which is just as we deserve, of course, and there are forces at work who would have us run out of this country, or even the Wizarding World in its entirety. They’re working to keep my father in Azkaban without a hearing, nonetheless a trial, as long as possible. That owl the other day was from our...let's just say a friend, one of the precious few we still have in the Ministry, and it said that--”

He paused, breathing deeply. “They're delaying his trial even further thanks to purported ‘new evidence,’ and he likely won't see the inside of a courtroom until next year. On top of that, he’s apparently become...dreadfully ill, and, as you know, Azkaban isn’t exactly known for the health and care of its inmates. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re poisoning him on purpose.”

Harry was momentarily frozen, his emotions careening from one radical end of the spectrum to the next as he attempted to process this information. 

Draco’s voice cracked as he continued. “I know he was...I know he _is_ a bad man. I know he did terrible things. I saw some of them. Some of them...some of them we did together. But he’s my _dad_ , and he helped the Ministry round up so many fucking Death Eaters, he gave them so much information, and they don’t even appreciate it, not even a little bit. They’ve let far worse than him go, and now he's going to die in fucking Azkaban without a trial, without me and Mum getting to so much as see him, and I just--I can't--” Draco covered his face with his hands and burst into tears.

Unable to bear the sight, Harry rushed to Draco’s side of the table and sat beside him. Draco flung his arms around him, clinging to him like a buoy in the sea, and wept into Harry’s shoulder. 

“It’s all right,” soothed Harry, blinking back his own tears as Draco’s sadness weighed on him. 

This was well and truly fucked. Yes, Lucius Malfoy was, without a doubt, one of the most wicked men Harry ever had the misfortune of knowing. He was also Draco’s father, and Harry knew for a fact that he had been instrumental in the incarceration and disbanding of several Death Eaters and Death Eater groups, especially those in high places. Though the thought made him ill, Harry believed that he most likely did deserve a hearing, fair and square, just like all the others.

“I'm sorry this is happening, and I’m sorry that your dad’s sick,” he said finally when Draco had quieted down. His tears had left a dark splotch on Harry’s shirt, mirroring the stain of his drool that morning.

Draco sighed loudly. “I don't know what to do. I’ve spent this entire fucking summer feeling and being utterly useless, and now this is going on, and everything with Mum, too, and, surprise, there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

“Could your Ministry friend arrange a visit?”

“Dad’s too high profile, they'd never allow it. It was difficult enough for him to get any kind of information about him, nevermind see him in person.” Draco tipped the wine bottle over his glass and groaned, appalled to discover that it was empty. He hiccuped and called for another bottle of the same or better quality Bordeaux, and was answered in kind.

The wheels in Harry’s mind were spinning so much that he barely noticed that Draco was filling his glass almost comically high. Maybe if Harry stepped in...no. Harry wasn't ready to offer that up as an option, yet. Even if he were, there was always the possibility that it might not even work. His stomach flipped as he turned the truly unsavory idea of helping Lucius Malfoy get out of Azkaban and--Merlin’s bloody beard--clear his name over in his head. He cringed inwardly, imagining what Ron and Hermione would say if they knew he had so much as entertained the idea. 

All he knew for now was that he wasn't ready to say anything, even though Draco’s downcast, faraway expression was his least favorite thing to behold.

Harry was suddenly beyond spent, and he found himself yearning for solitude for the first time since Draco had arrived. He rubbed his temples and said, “I’m sure there's a solution here, somewhere, but we’ll have to think on it.”

Draco nodded, but the crease between his eyebrows deepened. He had clearly been expecting something more fruitful to come from this interaction. 

“I feel…” He spoke suddenly, making a face. “Sticky. I want to have another bath with those potions of yours upstairs.”

Harry blinked, surprised but grateful that their conversation had shifted. He was also suddenly extremely aware that he was quite intoxicated. “Yeah, all right. C’mon.”

Draco gathered the wine and their glasses in his arms and they stumbled upstairs, leaving their dirty dishes amongst the burning candles on the table. 

Draco swayed a little in Harry's bedroom as they approached the bathroom. Harry grabbed his arm and pulled.

“Careful!” slurred Harry, remembering the broken glass.

“Careful of...what?” Draco asked lazily. Harry glanced down. The glass was gone. He turned to the bed; it was made up with fresh sheets. Kreacher had been upstairs. Fan-fucking-tastic. Not only had Kreacher gotten an eyeful in the kitchen, but he’d also been treated to their sloppy, sticky mess. 

In the bathroom, Harry enchanted some candles to hang overhead, like in the great hall at Hogwarts. Draco smiled lopsidedly at the sight. Harry smiled because Draco was smiling, something that almost made him forget about their earlier conversation. 

Almost.

Once he drew the bath, Harry automatically turned to leave. Draco let out a distressed noise. “Are you...not going to join me?” he asked indignantly as he pulled off his shirt.

Harry paused, feeling silly. He supposed he was still getting used to these new boundaries. “Oh. Well. Yeah. Fuck yeah.”

Draco smiled triumphantly, stripping quickly out of his clothes. “Good, because I'm not keen on sleeping next to you when you're all filthy.”

Harry blushed and followed suit. “Well, you didn’t seem to mind my filth very much in the kitchen, earlier, did you?”

Draco made a face and plopped a handful of colorful bath products into the tub before sliding into the water. “Shut up and get in, will you.”

Pushing thoughts of Lucius Malfoy, Death Eaters, and Azkaban from his mind, Harry did. 

******************************************************

The next day, Harry awoke at the epicenter of Draco’s severe grey gaze.

“Morning,” he said groggily, reaching for his glasses. He winced at a dull throb in his temple; he was definitely hungover.

“Morning,” said Draco, wriggling closer and puckering his lips. Harry smiled and obliged him with a kiss.

“Good sleep, huh?” asked Harry, gently stroking fingers through Draco’s hair. “No nightmares?”

“The best in a long time. No dreams at all.”

“Good,” whispered Harry, leaning in for another kiss. Draco hooked his leg over Harry's hip and kissed him deeply, pulling Harry's pelvis flush with his. Harry groaned, and Draco eagerly pulled their half-hard cocks out and took them both in his hand. Harry thought he might pass out from the sensation, but then, Draco did that lubrication spell and Harry's entire body turned to warm, gooey jelly. Harry realized deliriously that this was the first time they'd been able to kiss while getting off, and he quickly concluded that, as brilliant as blowjobs were, nothing compared to catching all of Draco’s breaths and whimpers in his mouth while simultaneously enjoying the maddeningly hot, slick press of his cock against his own. Draco finished first, moaning into Harry's mouth with a full-body convulsion and a copious release that sent Harry hurtling over the edge moments later.

It's a good thing he hadn't known about sex at Hogwarts, thought Harry afterwards, once they'd cleaned up and padded downstairs for coffee. He would have never gotten anything done. 

It was late in the morning, and Kreacher had already prepared food. It was a good thing, too--Harry didn't feel up to doing much of anything. Anything other than stare at Draco, talk to Draco, touch Draco, kiss Draco, and fuck Draco, of course.

“So,” said Harry, banging his knee on the table as he sat down a bit too eagerly (he was starving). “I was thinking, after we eat, do you want to try, er...going out in public? Around the corner for a cup of tea, maybe?”

Draco looked a bit anxious, but he nodded. “Yeah, all right. Suppose we've got to do it sooner rather than later.”

As they ate, Draco fell silent, and Harry could nearly see the wheels turning in Draco’s head as he pondered the next thing he was going to say. Harry crossed his arms and stared at him expectantly.

“Potter,” said Draco slowly, carefully. “Today...I thought I might visit my mum. At St. Mungo’s.”

Oh. Harry hadn't been expecting him to say that.

Draco continued, eyes trained on the last few scraps of his breakfast. “The hospital’s not far from here.” He looked up, fear flickering across his face. “Not that I’m asking that you come, obviously, but I thought I might--”

“Of course I’ll come.” The words were out of Harry's mouth before he’d realized what he was saying.

Draco looked at him like he was mad. “You really don't have to, I’m sure she’s one of the last people you want to see.”

“She saved my life, Draco, so, yeah. It's not a problem. We’ll go see your mum. Mix some wizards in with our Muggle practise run, why not.” Harry sipped his coffee nonchalantly, though he was more than a little concerned about adding another Malfoy to his day--handling just the one was already quite strenuous. Not that this was entirely a bad thing, of course. He gave Draco a bright smile.

A wash of emotions cycled across Draco’s face so quickly that Harry barely had time to register them, but he was nearly knocked out of his seat by the last look, which was so open and warm that It made Harry's chest tighten, an answering warmth swelling in his heart.

***********  
If there was anything more shocking than seeing Draco Malfoy puttering about the house in his pyjamas, it was seeing him dressed in casual Muggle clothes for their brief foray into the outside world. Harry willed his mouth not to drop open like some Muggle cartoon when he saw Draco pacing anxiously by the door. His hair was perfectly messy--it has been styled for the first time since Draco arrived at Grimmauld Place--and he was wearing a fitted black button down, long sleeves to cover his forearms, and dark denims that were so tight that Harry had to quickly look away. His shoes were simple but elegant black slip-ons; they looked surprisingly comfortable, and a tiny sliver of pale ankle visible between the shoe and the cuffs of his pants. Harry was nearly overpowered by a gluttonous urge to latch his mouth to that bared flesh and _taste_ , to rip those expensive, well-fitting clothes right off of Draco and--

“What are you staring at?” Draco was clearly irritated, his hands were on his hips. 

“Er,” said Harry eloquently. “You look…”

Draco raised his eyebrows and blushed.

“Nothing,” said Harry in a loud, flat tone. He walked past Draco to grab his light sweater from the hooks by the door. “You ready to go?”

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. “I’ve been ready for fifteen bloody minutes. Are _you_ ready?”

“I am. Let’s go see your mum.”

Walking through London on a balmy summer day was undoubtedly one of the most normal things that Harry had done all summer. Company excluded, of course. He was very glad to have someone else there; though he wasn’t famous among Muggles, he still found the sights, sounds, and smells of a crowded city to be rather overstimulating. To be enveloped in a throng of loud strangers was also suffocating, and there were moments on the trip to St. Mungo’s that had Harry inhaling and exhaling deeply, telling himself over and over that it was all right, he was all right.

“Are you all right, Potter?” asked Draco softly as they stood at a particularly populated crosswalk, awaiting the walk signal. 

Stunned and touched by the concern in his voice, Harry met his eyes and nodded. “Yeah. Just. It’s a lot.”

“I agree. At least we’re almost there.”

Harry let out a relieved sigh when they finally stood before the filthy glass display window of Purge & Dowse, Ltd, the entrance to St. Mungo’s masquerading as a long-abandoned department store. His chest soon tightened once more with anxiety as he remembered that he was going to be out and about amongst the wizarding community for the first time in months. Hopefully, no one would recognize him...or more realistically, if they did, hopefully they'd let him pass undisturbed.

A queasy wave of regret rolled over him.

Draco leaned close to the glass so that he could be in earshot of the mannequin. “We’re here to see Narcissa Malfoy, floor 3. Malfoy Wing.”

Of bloody course St Mungo’s had a Malfoy Wing, thought Harry a bit darkly. Few magical establishments lacked one. Without wanting to, Harry disdainfully recalled Lucius Malfoy’s insufferable bragging about his charity at the Quidditch World Cup. 

“Coming?” 

Harry turned to Draco, who was looking at him nervously. Draco was _not_ Lucius, Harry reminded himself as he nodded and stepped through the glass, shivering at the strange, wet sensation. Not anymore, at least. 

The fluorescent hospital lights assaulted Harry’s eyes. It was still overwhelming in here, just in a slightly different way than the Muggle streets: now there were witches and wizards crammed into a reception area, several, if not all, of whom knew exactly who the fuck Harry was almost as soon as he entered.

Working to suppress the panic rising like bile within him, Harry tried not to look at anyone as they walked to the elevator, completely bypassing the check in. Harry realized that everyone also knew exactly who Draco was, too, and where he'd be going. Some people were openly staring, but so far, no one had said anything. He supposed hospital staff had more pressing things to do than start trouble with a duo of famous, combustible loose cannons such as themselves. 

As they took the elevator up to the third floor (alone, thank the stars), Draco’s nerves were written plainly on his face. His Adam’s apple kept bobbing, and his lips were pressed together in a tight, downturned line. 

Harry reached over and took Draco’s hand in his own, face heating a bit.

Draco inhaled sharply. His eyes lingered briefly on where their fingers were joined before traveling up to Harry's. They both blushed and looked away.

When they arrived at the room within the Malfoy wing where Narcissa was staying, a healer in training searched both of their pockets for potions. “Just in case,” she said, somewhat apologetically. Something wrenched in Harry’s chest at the dismay on Draco’s face. Narcissa must have overdosed badly to warrant such a search. 

Harry squeezed his hand reassuringly, pleased to see that his shoulders relaxed slightly. 

The healer opened the door. “Narcissa,” she said softly, gesturing for Harry and Draco to enter. “You have visitors.”

Narcissa Malfoy was, unsurprisingly, staying in what was surely the finest room on the floor, if not the entire hospital. It was enormous. A soft curtain separated what must have been her bed from a nice, comfortable reception area. The lighting was muted and soothing, contrasting sharply to the garishness of the rest of the hospital. 

The woman in question was just coming out of the en suite bathroom. Her hair was in a simple updo, and she wore soft black athletic clothes, looking like she might be on her way to a Pilates class. She looked between Harry and Draco, who were still holding hands, puzzled, not registering what she was seeing. Draco gently released Harry’s hand and said in a tremulous voice, “Mum.”

She all but melted at the sight and sound of him. “Draco, my darling,” she sighed, hurrying to him and taking him in her arms. Draco squeezed his eyes shut and hugged her back, and that little warm pang returned to Harry’s chest as he watched them. Once they both stepped back, Narcissa smiled at Harry. “Hello, Harry,” she said sweetly, opening her arms. 

“Oh,” said Harry, surprised, stepping into her brief embrace. When she released him, Harry looked over at Draco. Though he quickly averted his eyes, he was smiling. Just a little. 

“How are you feeling, Mum?” asked Draco, as she led them over to two plush loveseats. He sat next to her while Harry took a seat on the opposing sofa. 

Narcissa’s hesitated, her eyes flitting to Harry. 

“Oh, I can go,” he said, heat rising to his face as he moved to stand. “You must want privacy.”

“No!” said Draco quickly, extending his hand as if to stop him. He turned to his mother. “I’ve been staying with Harry for the past few days, Mum. Neither of us have, er, gotten out much this summer, since the trials, so I asked him to come here with me today.”

 _Harry_. Harry’s given name still sounded so...funny in Draco’s voice. He didn’t know if he’d ever heard him call him just “Harry,” at least outside the bedroom. He decided that he liked it. 

“O-oh,” said Narcissa, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “You’re… _staying_ with...Harry Potter?”

Draco nodded confidently, but offered no further explanation. 

“Hmm,” she hummed, eyes melancholy. “Yes, well, I suppose you wouldn't want to stay at the manor, would you, especially not all by yourself.”

Draco looked crestfallen; Harry longed to comfort him, but he recovered quickly and asked her again how she felt.

Narcissa looked sheepishly down at her hands in her lap. “Much better, now. It took me two entire days to start speaking again; apparently I’d taken...” She glanced surreptitiously at Harry, but continued. “A nearly lethal dose. They said if you hadn’t brought me in when you did, I might not have made it.”

Draco’s eyes clouded with sadness and he covered Narcissa’s hands with his own, stopping her fidgeting. She looked surprised at the touch, but gripped his hands tightly, like she didn’t know how long he’d keep them there. Harry felt very much the voyeur.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” she murmured, her voice cracking. She gently smoothed a hand up Draco’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m just glad you’re all right,” said Draco sincerely, learning forward to rest his forehead against his mother’s. Harry twisted his hands in his lap, both moved and alienated by what was happening. He regretted coming into the room with Draco. He could have waited in the lobby or something. Grimmauld Place--and the firewhiskey there--seemed very far away. 

_“T’as reçu la chouette?”_ Narcissa asked Draco softly. Draco glanced at Harry before replying in what he was sure was perfect French, _“Oui...mais, on fait quoi, alors?”_

Harry’s mind reeled. Draco...spoke French?! Of course he fucking did, the posh arse--how had Harry managed to miss this, though? And Merlin’s beard, what other interesting, useful, and frustratingly sexy talents was Draco hiding from him?

Harry watched, open-mouthed, as the pair softly exchanged phrases that he could not even hope to understand. It continued for some time, and as fantastic as Harry found the sight and sound of Draco prattling on fluently in a gorgeous romance language, he longed for a drink. He was glad that Draco’s mum was all right, but why on earth had he needed to be present for this?

Oh, right. Because Draco was, much like Harry, completely and utterly fucked up and thusly incapable of venturing into any sort of public setting by himself. And then there was also the small, barely meaningful detail that Harry and Draco were sort of...dating now. Weren’t they? They were at least sleeping together. Obviously. Harry frowned. Which one was it? Was one better than the other? What did it mean that Harry actually cared about all of this? Harry hadn't felt so confused about something so… _normal_ as a relationship or dating in what seemed like a lifetime. 

He supposed he ought to be grateful that it wasn’t related to the war or the Dark Lord, and he was, truly, but...it was still beyond vexing. Why couldn’t anything just be simple?

Loud tittering in French brought Harry back to himself, a spectral headache pulsing just at his temples. He didn’t know how long they’d been there, but he was reaching his limit; he doubted that he'd be able to handle coffee after all of this. Hopefully Draco would understand. 

Draco had just finished speaking animatedly with his hands, and was now slumped forward, shoulder pressed to Narcissa’s as she soothingly stroked his hair and murmured what Harry deduced to be pacifying words.

“I'll be out in a few days,” she said, glancing over at Harry. “We’ll get it all sorted then. Not to worry, sweetheart, not to worry.”  
Draco nodded, fighting back tears. “I know. I know we will.”

Harry assumed they were talking about the owl, and thusly, about Lucius. He offered Narcissa a tight smile and shifted uncomfortably. Yes, firewhiskey was going directly into his tea the moment they returned home, he decided. Muggle London could bloody wait.

“Well,” said Narcissa with a regretful smile. “You ought to get going, I’ve got to get to my therapy group.”

Harry nodded sympathetically and stood. He would have to remember to bring this up the next time Draco was shitting on mind healers. Draco and Narcissa stood up together. Draco brought his mum’s hands to his lips and kissed both of them, sniffling. Her face contorted like she was in pain and she pulled him into another fierce embrace. Something bountiful and warm flooded Harry's chest as he regarded the tender display.

Narcissa released Draco, and wiped tears from her sharp, coldly pretty face. She reached out for Harry, who stepped forward awkwardly. She took him by the wrists and pressed her forehead to his. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For taking care of my Draco.”

Harry swallowed. “Er, sure. No problem.”

Narcissa pulled back, regarding him knowingly. “Be good to him, won't you, dear?”

“Of-of course,” he stammered, choking on his own saliva a bit. He looked over at Draco, who was roughly the shade of a tomato. Had he...had he told his mum about them? Composing himself quickly, Harry said, “If you need anything, Mrs Malfoy, we’re close by.”

Narcissa gently rubbed his shoulder. “Ever the sweetheart, aren't you?”

“Come on, Harry,” said Draco, startling Harry again with the use of his first name. “Mum needs her rest.”

Harry smiled tightly at Narcissa. Draco hugged his mother once more, then there was some more French before Draco joined him at the door, nodded, and they exited the room. 

“I didn't know you spoke French,” said Harry almost as soon as they were in the hallway.

“Oh.” Draco blushed. “Well, I do. It's my second language. But then again...I suppose there are a lot of things you don't know about me.”

“I'd very much like to find out.” Harry stopped Draco right as they rounded a corner. He wanted to say, “Draco, I want to date you. All this getting off business is bloody brilliant, but I think we should establish right here and now that we are properly dating. I want to hold your hand and kiss you and make you come and take you out for dinner and maybe to the Muggle cinema, where we can kiss in the back row, and I’ll go down on you if no one’s around. I also want to do uncomfortable things like talk about the war, and your trauma, and my trauma. I want you to trust me enough to tell me things that I don’t necessarily want to hear, like stuff about your dad, even about Voldemort, and I want to visit your mum in the hospital and see a mind healer with you. I want to be there for you. I want to be your boyfriend.”

Insead, overwhelmed and perplexed by a deluge of emotions he couldn't quite place or process, Harry choked on his words and blurted out, “I don't think we should do London today. I'm bloody well spent and can’t take it anymore.”

Draco smirked. “Oh, thank the stars, yes. I've had enough of being...out. Let's go back to yours.”

Elated that they were on the same page, Harry smiled and leaned in for a kiss. 

Just as his lips met Draco’s, the unmistakable sound of a photographer’s bulb flashing rang in Harry's ears.

Both boys pulled back as though they'd been burned. Harry's stomach sank through the floor at the sight of what had to be a dozen witches and wizards, many holding quills, parchment, and cameras. Life was suspended in one dreadfully silent stretch of paradoxically momentary yet also interminable time as the paparazzi and their accompanying onlookers goggled at Harry and Draco, who stared incredulously back.

As if a spell had been broken, bedlam erupted. Rabid journalists circled them like wolves, shouting questions from every angle. Harry's eyes stung from the flashes of so many cameras, and his mind raced with panic as he reached blindly for Draco. 

“Potter!” 

Harry whirled around. Draco was now a few meters away, likely thanks to a ravenous group of bustling witches who were pounding him with questions ranging from Voldemort to his father to the reason he was in St. Mungo’s to begin with as their quills feverishly scratched across parchment. He looked utterly distraught.

Enraged, Harry shoved a journalist right in the chest and ran towards Draco. Draco grabbed his arm, pulled him close to his body, and squeezed his eyes shut, and with a thunderous crack, they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, many apologies for the longer-than-planned break between updates! To make up for it, I consolidated what was originally meant to be two chapters into one. 
> 
> What did you think?! Give me LIFE by letting me know your thoughts in the comments! You can also come say hello and talk Drarry to me on my weird as fuck [Tumblr](http://hannibalssweaters.tumblr.com/), if you're into that kind of thing.
> 
> Things are about to get wild in the next chapter, which I am currently wrapping up and hope to have to you as soon as possible--I'm going to try for next weekend. Thank you all for reading, and for your love on this fic, which is so near and dear to my heart!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry and Draco start to deal with the fallout from their run-in at the hospital, sort of, Draco takes care of Harry, and the boys receive some visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***CAVEAT LECTOR: Mentions of past abuse, bodily fluids (vomiting).

Harry saw stars as he landed roughly in the backyard of 12 Grimmauld Place, pain radiating through his hands and knees as they broke his fall. Draco was scrambling to his feet beside him, wild-eyed and disheveled. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, panic in his raised voice as he yanked Harry to his feet. He turned Harry around, stroking frantic hands over him, checking for injuries.

“I dunno, really,” said Harry slowly. His voice didn’t sound like his own; a telltale, sickly sweet saliva gathered in his mouth. “I’m really nauseous.”

“You didn’t get splinched, though?”

“Hmm, don’t think so. No.” Harry’s stomach roiled and his ears rang. He leaned forward, bracing himself on his knees.

Draco was still talking, his voice rising steadily as he paced. Harry wasn’t listening at all, the endless flash of paparazzi bulbs replaying over and over in his mind like a nightmare. This was bad. Awful. Catastrophic, even. This was everything that Harry had worked so hard to avoid, and he was nowhere near ready to confront it head-on.

“Draco,” he rasped. “Move. I’m going to fucking puke.”

Draco jumped back just as Harry delivered on that proclamation, vomiting violently into his marigolds. This day was just getting better and better by the minute. 

Harry felt numb as Draco led him inside without so much as a snide comment. An incessant, anxious static droned in his mind, growing to fever pitch and eclipsing everything happening around him. He felt something akin to what he had felt in the days leading up to or right after the war, or...the day that Sirius had died. 

“Potter. Can you hear me? _Potter._ ”

Harry’s eyes slowly rolled in their sockets until they settled on Draco’s pale face, brows furrowed in concern. “Say something if you can hear me.”

Harry gurgled unintelligibly. Apparently, he was brushing his teeth. He spat a globule of toothpaste and saliva into the sink and nodded before proceeding to wash his face. He was vaguely aware of Draco periodically rubbing a stiff hand over his back. The gesture was hesitant, like he wanted to offer comfort, but didn’t quite know how.

Harry pulled off his clothes and slowly redressed in his pyjamas, limbs heavy with dread. He could feel Draco’s eyes on him; he was practically vibrating with nervous energy, but he didn’t say a word. Instead, he followed Harry as he plodded dreamily downstairs and poured himself a large glass of firewhiskey.

“Are you daft?” Draco swooped in and took the bottle and tumbler from Harry. “You have to eat something first, or else you’ll vomit everywhere all over again.”

Harry glared at Draco. “Give me my drink.”

“Idiot. You have to fucking eat first.”

“I’m not _fucking_ hungry. Just…” Harry’s eyes flashed. “Will you stop being such a fucking prick for once and give it back?”

With a scorching glare, Draco yelled, “Kreacher!”

In an instant, the dour old elf appeared. “Yes, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Make Potter something to eat. Something simple, seeing as he’s just been sick.” He paused. “Please.”

Kreacher nodded and got to work.

Had Harry been feeling like himself, he would have taken a long moment to appreciate Draco’s thoughtfulness, rough around the edges as it was. Since he wasn’t, he shot Draco a nasty look, meandered the length of the kitchen table, and slumped into a chair. 

His vision blurred as he succumbed to a furious sorrow. It had been a solid few weeks since he’d felt so...since he’d felt anything like this. Of bloody course this happened to him, the one time he’d shown his face in public. What had he expected? Going to _St. Mungo’s_ , thinking that it would just go off without a hitch, without someone recognizing him. And with Draco Malfoy, no less! He should have just flown in on a broomstick shooting fireworks from his wand, while Draco banged pots and pans. He was an imbecile. 

Merlin’s beard. The press had gotten photographs of them together. They’d gotten photographs of them _kissing_. Harry leaned his face into his hands as ice ran through his veins. He could feel his own logic and rationale fading, giving way to his most hysterical thoughts. 

He hadn’t told anyone that Draco was staying with him, and he certainly hadn’t told anyone that they were together. Or...doing whatever it is they were doing. Semantics aside, the option of telling (or not telling) people on Harry’s own terms had been cruelly snatched from him by the Daily _fucking_ Prophet or whatever other abhorrent rags profited from exposing private matters of citizens. 

No, sod telling other people--they hadn’t even had a chance to talk about it _themselves_. This thought was the most loathsome to Harry--these journalists had taken the first nice thing that had happened to him since the war, something that was uniquely his--well, his and Draco’s--and exploited it, twisted it, _spoiled_ it without giving it a thought beyond their front pages. By tomorrow, the entire bloody Wizarding World would know that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was not only queer as all hell, but also _romantically involved_ with Draco Malfoy. 

Ron and Hermione. Fuck. Harry felt lightheaded. Ron and Hermione would see it before Harry had the chance to talk to them himself. The Weasley family would see it. The entire bloody staff and student body of Hogwarts would see it. Everyone he knew and cared about would bloody see it, and judge it before he’d been able to tell anyone, to explain what it meant to him to those he cared about the most.

The bubble would burst. Reality would come rushing in like water from a frigid lake, and they would have to deal with it. A cold sweat broke out on Harry’s forehead and he retched once more. Like he had been known it was coming, Draco rushed over with a bucket just in time to receive the remainder of Harry’s stomach contents. 

Harry vaguely registered someone wiping his mouth with a damp cloth and gently tipping his chin up to give him water. He was gently nudged towards a plate of food, which had appeared on the table before him. Harry picked at it mindlessly as every possible Daily Prophet headline ran through his head, blurring together with the potential reactions of his friends and, of course, thoughts of the subsequent disappointment and shunning and coldness and distance until he felt like his head was going to burst.

“Drink this.” Draco’s voice sounded far away, but Harry could see him right there, brows knitted together as he coaxed Harry’s mouth open and tapped several droplets from a curious, expensive-looking vial onto his tongue.

Instantly, the disaster reel in his mind grew quieter, and Harry succumbed to the warm embrace of the mysterious potion, slipping easily from consciousness. 

***************************************************************

Harry blinked his eyes open slowly. He was in his bed, and it was dark, save for the light of a few candles. He felt out of it, like he was still dreaming, though he knew he was awake. He was 99% sure of it, at least. 

The disastrous events at the hospital loomed in his mind like dirigible plums--they had happened, and they were _there_ , but strangely removed from Harry, like they were all someone else's problems. Perhaps they were. Perhaps that was the purpose of the potion that Draco had fed him. What a potion that would be!

Harry smacked his parchment-dry lips together, grimacing at the stale dryness of his mouth. He extended a hand slowly, watching his fingers for a moment before reaching for the tall glass of water on his bedside table. He downed it all in two gulps, feeling instantly better.

The bedroom door creaked open, and Draco’s pale, angular face poked through. He looked worried. And tired. And lovely. Harry smiled weakly. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” he said, sounding relieved. He knelt at Harry’s side, refilling the glass of water with a low, _aguamenti._ The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than usual. “Are you feeling better?”

“Oh, you look exhausted.” Harry didn’t answer the question, opting instead to caress a lazy finger over Draco’s exquisite jawline. “Gorgeous, don’t get me wrong. Just tired. Makes me worried.”

“M-me?” Draco sputtered, batting Harry’s hand away. “ _You're_ worrying about me? It’s you that we need to worry about, what with the vomiting and the panic attack.”

Oh yeah, that. It was neither here nor there to Harry. “What did you give me? That potion?”

Draco looked away, guilty. “It was...an admittedly poorly brewed Draught of Peace. It’s not meant to quite knock you out like that, but...next batch will be better. Hopefully. Probably.”

“ _You_ brewed the Draught of Peace? All on your own? Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.” Harry felt warm as he reached for Draco’s hand. 

Draco was gawking at him like he'd sprouted an extra head, but he took Harry’s hand in his own. His fingers were cold and clammy. 

“Potter are you…” He trailed off, frowning. “Hmm. I must have well and truly bollocksed up this batch, if you're still feeling the effects after all this time.”

“All what time?”

Draco waved his hand, opening the curtains to reveal the sun climbing high in the bright summer sky. Birds chirped in the distance.”You passed out yesterday afternoon and slept through the night.”

Harry stared out the window dumbly. Every muscle in his body felt fluid and weightless. He could float away and curl up in one of the trees outside with the chirping birds, and never have to worry about the Daily Prophet or Diagon Alley or Hogwarts or wizards again.

Except for Draco. Draco could come with him to his tree. It would likely be an adjustment for him, what with the mess of a bird’s nest and the general outdoorsy-ness, but he’d get used to it. 

Turning to Draco, Harry proclaimed confidently, “You’d come with me. To the tree.”

Draco stared at him for a moment before replying, “...Right.” He gently squeezed Harry’s hand. “So, er...not to alarm you, but...there are some people downstairs.”

Harry blinked in slow motion. “Hmm? Come again?”

“People. Downstairs. They want to see you.”

“What do you mean, ‘people?’ Who’s...who’s ‘people?’”

“Your...friends.”

“Will you just tell me who the fuck is downstairs, Draco?” Harry’s dream-like state was beginning to condense uncomfortably into a most vexing headache, right at his temples. Suddenly irritated, he gently pushed Draco to the side and, with great effort, heaved his legs over the edge of the bed. 

“Granger and Weasley, of course,” said Draco, looking put out as Harry got to his feet. 

Harry’s nearly toppled over. _Fuck_. “Bugger. I assume they’re here about the papers?”

“Yes, but, as Granger said, she and Weasley were planning on calling this weekend, anyway, so. They would have come anway.” 

Of course; it had been a week and some change since Hermione had last visited. Harry felt stupid for forgetting it. He cleared his throat. “How is it? Is it bad?”

Draco winced in response. 

_Shit._ Harry downed his second glass of water and stumbled into the bathroom to brush his teeth. A voice in the back of his mind was telling him that he ought to comb his hair, and probably put on proper trousers, but he wasn’t about to do all that. It was just Ron and Hermione, and they were going to expect answers no matter what he was wearing.

As he ambled out the door, Harry realized that Draco was standing awkwardly by the bed, wringing his hands.  
“Come on.” Harry stretched out his hand. 

“I don’t think so.”

“Please.” Harry took a step towards him. “I need you to be there with me. They need to know. To see you now.”

Draco looked distressed. “I already spent far too much time with them alone; it was absolutely dreadful.”

“Merlin’s beard, how long have they been here?” The idea of Ron, Hermione, and Draco sitting together and not tearing each other apart was most intriguing to Harry.

“Nearly an hour or something.”

“Wow. Hmm, fine. Don’t come, then.”

Looking somehow both defiant and defeated, Draco followed Harry downstairs, hovering behind him like he was descending into an unknown abyss in a horror film. Harry strolled lazily into the kitchen, feeling an odd mix of comfort and concern at the sight of Ron and Hermione--Hermione was seated, at the table, eyes wide, and Ron stood with his back to the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Three cups of coffee rested on the table. Harry couldn’t help but smirk a bit. Draco really had sat with them. Had he tried to make conversation with them? How on _earth_ could that have gone?

“Harry.” Hermione stood, looking at Harry like she was shocked to see him.

Ron turned around, eyes almost as wide as Hermione’s. “All right, Harry.”

“Er, hi,” said Harry, feeling like an idiot. Draco pressed a mug of just warm enough coffee into Harry’s hands. 

“This should help with the Draught of Peace,” he muttered. He sidestepped Harry to stand just behind him, strategically maneuvering Harry between himself and Ron and Hermione. He rested tentative fingers on Harry’s shoulder. 

“Thank you.” 

Hermione made a tiny distressed noise, but swallowed and said, “So, how are you feeling? M-Malfoy said you were a bit under the weather yesterday.”

Harry sipped his coffee, noticing the neutralizing effect it had on this foggy perception immediately. “Eh, I’ve been better. I just—“

Before he could finish that thought, Run blurted out, “All right, then, let’s have it, Harry. What the hell is going on here?”

He’d never been one to mince words, that was certain. It was one of the things Harry loved about him. Except for now, of course. 

Draco moved to stand next to Harry, placing a not at all tentative, even _possessive_ hand on his forearm. His eyes shot daggers at Ron. “Oh yes, screaming your head off at your friend who’s just been sick is a great way to go about things, that's the way to do it. Just lovely. Leave it to a bloody Weasley.”

Ron leaned back, eyeing Draco with manic, wide-eyed incredulity. “ _Excuse_ me?! Did a _Malfoy_ just tell me how to conduct myself in front of my _best friend?_ A _Malfoy_ , who, up until just recently--up until just bloody yesterday, apparently--was thought of as an ex-Death Eater, Voldemort-loving, racist, classist piece of human garbage by everyone in this room? Is that a real thing that just happened?”

Draco’s face turned crimson with rage and his mouth opened to retort, but Harry covered his hand with his own and squeezed just as Hermione gently touched Ron’s shoulder. Both boys held their tongues, fuming, the enmity between them pulsing palpably.

Hermione turned, forcing a smile as she looked from Draco to Harry. “Erm. All right, let’s try this again. Harry, we want to know, if you’ll tell us, please, what’s going on with you. And M-Malfoy. We’re just a little confused, that’s all. And surprised. Mostly confused.”

“Mostly the lot of it,” supplemented Ron hotly. “Confused as all fucking hell. Shocked, too.”

“I think,” said Hermione, speaking over Ron, “that the hardest part of this is having only the Prophet’s perspective. We...we just had no idea. Why didn’t you tell us?”

Harry’s head had started to throb, and he was just beside himself that _this_ was how he and Draco were, for lack of a better term, coming out to Hermione and Ron. “Honestly,” he said, with glancing over at Draco, “We haven’t told anybody. We’ve not, er, we’ve not really even had a chance to discuss it ourselves.”

The silence that met that revelation was deafening. Ron and Hermione looked wickedly uncomfortable, and sweat from Draco’s palm had begun to slick Harry’s skin. 

“Have you seen it, mate?” Ron asked quietly, holding out a folded copy of what Harry recognized instantly as the sensationalist, wizarding tabloid that was the Daily Prophet. As Harry moved to take it, Ron said, “you might want to sit down.”

Overcome by an oppressive wave of irritation, Harry snatched the paper out of Ron’s hand and took a seat at the table.

His heart sank. Just as he’d feared, an enormous, close-up picture of Harry and Draco took up the prime spot on the first page. Their faces were millimeters apart, both looking moonstruck as they came together for a kiss. As soon as their lips touched, they were pulling away from each other, looking caught, their shocked eyes illuminated by the bulbs of countless cameras. Harry couldn't stop watching the entire ghastly spectacle over and over, a monstrous rage growing within him. The looks they’d exchanged...they hadn’t been for others to see! The idea of the wizarding public being privy to the softness in Draco’s eyes that was reserved for Harry and Harry alone infuriated him beyond measure.

Then there was the headline, which read: “EXCLUSIVE: Harry Potter’s Endless Affinity For Dark Magic--the Saviour of the Wizarding World Steps Out With Ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy!”

The wave of nausea that had afflicted him yesterday afternoon returned at the sensational words. He read on: 

“Where in the world has the most famous wizard in all of Britain been all summer? After spending nearly three months entirely out of the spotlight, Harry Potter has made his first public appearance since the highly publicized Death Eater trials, and caused quite a scene. The Daily Prophet caught up with the Boy Who Lived at St. Mungo’s, where he was spotted sharing a public kiss with none other than disgraced ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy! 

“Malfoy himself has also made himself scarce in the wake of the trials, where scandalous details surfaced not only about Malfoy’s integral involvement with the Death Eater movement, but also about his sordid relationship with the Dark Lord himself. 

“Potter’s testimonial was instrumental in Malfoy’s acquittal, as well as that of his mother, Narcissa, who has also not been seen since. His father, infamous dark wizard Lucius Malfoy, still remains in Azkaban awaiting court proceedings. Did this unlikely romance blossom during the trials, or even earlier? Potter and Malfoy were in the same class at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft & Wizardry, so it would not be surprising if these two have been involved for some time. Both Malfoy and Potter declined to comment on the specifics of their relationship, their lives after the war, their public debut as the most controversial couple in the Wizarding World, or what any of this means for post-war politics, but this reporter is sure that we have not seen--or heard--the last from this unlikely couple!”

Red splotches swam in Harry’s vision. Seething, he threw the paper aside and slammed his fist onto the table. He could barely see, he could barely think—he couldn’t fucking believe what he had just read, that the Prophet STILL held him in such low esteem that they would out him and Draco for their own gain. More importantly, how had they even accessed those court documents? Not that they contained details beyond implications when it came to Draco’s abuse; but Harry knew for a fact that the Ministry was supposed to have sealed them after the trial!

Yes, as unfortunate as this tasteless article was for him, Harry’s heart ached at its implications for Draco. He swiveled in his seat to look at Draco, taking his hands in his own. A deep, burning humiliation was etched on his face, and he wouldn’t look at Harry.

Incensed and heartsick, Harry released Draco’s hands and stood. “Of all the fucking absurd, sensationalist rubbish they’ve ever published, this really takes the cake!” he shouted, running hands through his messy hair.

Ron narrowed his eyes and pointing an accusatory finger at Draco. “How do we know that _you_ didn’t set this up, hmm? Yeah, Harry might be buying your blubbering act, but you don’t fucking fool me, Malfoy. I bet you made this happen. You couldn’t _stand_ the idea of Harry getting some peace and bloody quiet while _your_ scummy family was put on blast, could you? Not so high and mighty now that the bloody Malfoys have been exposed for the utter shit they are, are you Malfoy?”

“Oh fuck you, Weasley!” shouted Draco, leaping to his feet. His hands were balled into shaking fists at his side. “You don’t know this first bloody thing about what I’ve been through—"

“Oh, what? Why don’t you tell me how hard it’s been for you!” Ron yelled, rising to stand across from Draco, challenge in his eyes. “Have times been real tough over at Malfoy bloody Manor? Can you only eat five filet mignon steaks a week instead of seven, because all your ancient galleons are tied up in solicitor fees for daddy? Do you have to piss in a porcelain toilet like a bloody poor person instead of a solid gold one now that daddy’s locked away with the dementors? Can mummy only afford bottom-shelf wine to drink herself into a disgraced stupor now, hmm?”

“Ron, please!” Hermione begged, looking to Harry for help. Harry was already pulling Draco against his body, concealing the wrathful tears that were finally spilling down his cheeks as he clung to Harry desperately. Harry glared at Ron as Draco cried quietly, and Ron looked utterly shocked at the sight. What he had said hadn’t even been that bad, especially when compared with some of the nearly unforgivable things that Draco had said to all three of them in the past. Within the current context, however, Harry knew that Ron’s words cut Draco like a hot knife.

Harry saw Hermione elbow Ron in the ribs. “Blimey,” he said, looking sheepishly at Harry. “I...shouldn’t have said all that, I guess. Sorry, mate.”

“I know it might be tough to believe, but Draco’s different now,” said Harry sharply, ignoring that Ron mouthed “Draco” incredulously to Hermione. “And if you’d stop trying to peck his bloody eyes out for one second and let me talk, I’ll tell you all about it.”

With a sniff, Draco disentangled himself from Harry’s embrace. With an all-too familiar look of disgust that made Harry feel a little queasy, he said as calmly as he could, “I’m going to leave you lot to it for a bit. I don’t think your friends want me here, Potter.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, give us a minute?”

As Draco turned to leave, Harry lightly gripped his wrist. Draco turned, and Harry cupped his face in his hands and kissed the sneer from his lips. Despite Ron’s strangled, “What’s happening?!” and a little gasp from Hermione, Harry felt neither shame nor embarrassment. He wanted Draco to know this, to know that he wasn’t ashamed of him, that he was standing by his feelings no matter what his friends said. Judging by the look of pleased surprise on Draco’s face, the message was received. Harry hoped it was, at least.

“I know it’s probably a bit weird to see me kiss a bloke,” said Harry once Draco had gone. He sat back down at the table across from his awestruck friends.

“Oh come on, we don’t care that you like blokes,” said Ron, backed up by fervent nods from hermione. “We always figured you did. It’s just…” he grimaced. “ _Malfoy?!_ ”

Harry inhaled deeply. “Look, I hope you both know that this is not how I wanted to tell you. This isn’t how I wanted any of this to happen. Obviously. And I meant what I said earlier. Malfoy- _Draco_ -and I haven’t even been able to talk about it ourselves. It’s so...new.”

Hermione worried her lip between her teeth before saying, “I only just saw you a week and some ago. He wasn’t here then, was he?”

“No.”

“It’s been so little time, Harry. How do you know he’s really changed?”

Harry closed his eyes, vividly remembering the sound of Draco’s screams, the smell of sweat- and piss-stained sheets, the vulnerability in his grey eyes, the sound of his laughter, the feeling of his breath on Harry’s skin, the taste of his lips. It was overwhelming. “Trust me. He’s...we’ve had conversations I never dreamed of having with anyone, least of all him. He’s not perfect—“

Ron snorted. Hermione gave him a look, and Harry suspected that she had also stepped on his toe under the table.

“—but he’s been through a lot. Honestly, he really has. And he…he understands me. Really understands me.”

“All right, but...Harry,” Hermione looked so upset that Harry could hardly bear it. “We understand you, too. We went through it with you, too.”

“I know, and I’m endlessly grateful to have you both with me, both during the war and now,” said Harry, but he was more than a little frustrated by the fact that they just weren’t getting it. His headache hadn’t ebbed one bit, and he was tired of this conversation already, though he knew it was necessary. He had half a mind to chase everyone out of the house and close himself away in Sirius’ library until he died in there, free of real world issues and his choices and their consequences, like explaining to one’s two best friends why one was living with one’s childhood enemy and kissing him in public.

“Draco is different,” said Harry again, taking off his glasses to rub his temples. 

“Can you at least tell us what happened that brought you around to this conclusion?” Ron asked.

Harry told them an abridged version of the past week, being sure to leave out the details of Draco’s nightmares and the more explicit details of their new relationship. He told them about Narcissa and the hospital, but mentioned nothing of Lucius’ predicament. 

When he was finished, Ron and Hermione were studying him, both clearly deep in thought. 

“Harry,” said Hermione slowly. She looked at Ron before continuing, “I can understand where you’re coming from, I think, and we trust your judgment, but… _really_ think about this. Does one week of changed behavior atone for nearly seven years of torment?”

Harry knew her words were coming from a place of deep affection and care, but that didn’t stop the indignation from bubbling up inside of him. “Yes,” he shot back. Yes it does, Hermione.”

“But, this is _Malfoy_ we’re talking about here, mate,” said Ron, with the appearance of someone who was playing a losing game of wizard’s chess. “You _hate_ Malfoy. And he hates you! He broke your nose, for fuck’s sake. He hurt you, physically and emotionally, over and over. That doesn’t just...go away. He was a bloody Death Eater, Harry. He wanted Voldemort to win.”

“No he didn’t,” barked Harry, defensive. “You have no idea what he--”

“Yeah, we do, mate, we do have an idea.” Ron’s voice was rising steadily. “He called Hermione a mudblood. Remember that? He was on Umbridge's bloody snitch squad. He let Death Eaters into Hogwarts to _kill_ Dumbledore. His father is _Lucius sodding Malfoy_ , as in the Lucius sodding Malfoy who snuck Tom Riddle’s diary into Hogwarts on Ginny. Ginny almost died, Harry!”

When Harry said nothing for fear of flying off the handle, Ron sputtered, “Since I apparently need to go on, Lucius Malfoy stood by and did _nothing_ when Voldemort murdered Cedric Diggory, when he almost bloody murdered _you_! He let Voldemort into his bloody home—they were thick as thieves Harry! You think you’re going to get the blessing of Lucius sodding Malfoy? You think he’s gonna be like, ‘oh yes, Harry Potter, the boy who I spent years actively trying to _murder_ to further my own fucked up agenda, please date my son!’ The Malfoys all wanted you dead--Draco too! He tried to use the cruciatus curse on you, for fuck’s sake! He isn’t some misunderstood, battered, sad little boy with a heart of gold who’s just had a bad lot in life. He’s a villain, mate.”

Harry gaped at Ron, whose face had turned the color of a tomato. His chest heaved as he added feebly, “He’s bad. He’s so, so bloody bad, and he’s not about to change over night.”

“He just wants you to _think_ he’s changed because he’s ended up on the wrong side of the victor,” added Hermione. She grabbed Harry’s hand, eyes pleading. “You know he’s got ulterior motives, Harry, you just have to know it. When has Malfoy ever done anything out of the goodness of his heart?”

“Doubt he’s even got one of those,” muttered Ron darkly. 

Now Harry was seething, his heart beating like a war drum in his chest. It wasn’t because his friends were wrong, though he was convinced they were, but because a not so tiny, dark part of him knew that what they were saying was a very real possibility. Draco always _did_ have a flare for theatrics; perhaps he was just acting, using Harry for his own gain. Once his name and his family had been cleared, with Harry’s help, he’d drop Harry like it was nothing. He’d probably run off to France or something with Mummy and Daddy, and oh, how they’d laugh at Harry Potter, the sentimental, idiot boy who lived—

“This is just like at school,” continued Hermione, exasperated. “It’s your savior complex, Harry, he’s using you—"

“He’s not _fucking_ using me!” Harry screamed. A gust of wind blew through the kitchen as his magic flared of its own accord. His friends fell silent, gaping at him. His eyes flashed as he continued, “Did you even see him just now, _crying_ in front of you? When have you ever seen that posh arse shed a single tear? You think that’s fake? No way, there’s no way...he’s got this whole other side to him, you just don’t understand. You _never_ understand, you two, you never have and you never fucking will! He knows what it’s like to have everything taken from you, stolen, to have Voldemort force his way inside and—” His words stuck in his throat here as hot tears pricked his eyes. 

“He’s not fucking using me,” he repeated quietly. With no small amount of bitterness, he added, “And I guess you didn’t really mean it when you said that you trust my judgment.”

After a long moment, Hermione spoke, her voice warbling in the effort of containing tears. “But we _do_ mean it, Harry. You’re so good, and so kind. We trust you and we...we love you. He doesn’t fucking deserve you. He doesn’t deserve your love.”

“But don’t I deserve his?” The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he knew what he was saying. 

The trio stared at one another, and Harry wondered if any of them would ever speak again when Hermione shook her head and said, “Of course you deserve love, Harry. You...you deserve all the love in the world.”

Ron shifted in his seat, red in the face and earnest. “We want you to be happy, mate, honestly we do. This is just…a hell of a lot to take in.”

Hermione cleared her throat and adjusted her posture, composing herself. “That it is. Look, Ron and I came here a bit...worked up over that bloody paper. It wasn’t right. We haven’t had any time to digest this, and now that we’ve talked to you..why don’t we all just take a minute. Let’s try to absorb this. If you’d like...we can come round tomorrow for tea or dinner, have a proper conversation with you. And, um, Malfoy.”

Harry was a little surprised at how easily his friends had conceded this “non-argument” to him, but he ran a hand through his hair and said absently, “Yeah, all right, that sounds good.”  
His eyes flit towards the garden; he realized he was starving. “All right. Let’s say dinner tomorrow. I’ll make something.”

Ron forced a smile. “All right, then it’s settled. Maybe you could, yanno, have a word with Malfoy, too, so he doesn’t act like a fucking prat the whole time we’re here, what do you think?”

Harry laughed shakily, relieved that this interaction was coming to an end. “Yeah, I will. So long as you both open your minds a bit to the possibility that...that he is different.” _That this could be real. That this could work out,_ he thought. “Please...try to trust me. I’m not a broken marionette, I can make my own fucking decisions.”

“We _know_ ,” said Hermione. “We do trust _you_ , it’s just...we’re always going to look out for you.”

She opened her arms for a hug, and Harry embraced her. Then he embraced Ron, who looked taken aback at the gesture. “All right mate,” he said with a chuckle, patting his back. “We’ll see you tomorrow night, then. Seven?”

Harry nodded. “Seven. Oh, and, uh, please don’t talk about anything I’ve told you tonight with other people.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Hell. What am I gonna say to Mum? To Ginny?”

Harry’s heart constricted. Talking to Ginny about this was not going to be a pleasant experience. “Sounds like a bit of a ‘me’ problem, rather than a ‘you’ problem, doesn’t it?”

“Come on, mate. They’ve already been in a tizzy all morning. This is...kind of a big deal.”

“I dunno, Ron. Just tell them that I’m bent as hell and I don’t like having my private affairs broadcast all over the sodding wizarding world, and they can come see me for any other questions they’ve got.” Harry’s eyes wandered over to the bottle of firewhiskey on the kitchen counter; he was exhausted.

“All right, mate,” said Ron again, and with a few more parting words, Harry’s two best friends in the entire world were gone.

He stood in silence in the kitchen for some time after their departure, sipping his now cold coffee, mind and stomach churning. That hadn’t gone spectacularly well, but it hadn’t gone terribly, either. He didn’t know what to make of it, he only knew that he was agitated and tired. Mostly tired. 

He was also concerned that Ron and Hermione had given voice to the festering little worry that had been niggling about the back of Harry’s mind since this whole crazy thing began: that this was all some ploy on Draco’s part, some setup to get something from Harry, and once he got what he wanted, he’d leave. His heart was telling him that this wasn’t true, that everything that they had been through together, all of the conversations and the first times and the feelings couldn’t be faked. They couldn’t, right?

A noise from upstairs brought Harry back to reality. Draco hadn’t resurfaced, which was more than slightly curious. Harry summoned Kreacher and asked for breakfast before wandering upstairs.

The door to the guest room where Draco had been staying was was ajar. Harry hesitated just before the doorway. Draco was upset--he could hear him banging around in there, muttering barely audible, angry words to himself.

Steeling himself, Harry entered the room and frowned at the sight that greeted him. Dresser drawers were flung open haphazardly, resembling a dilapidated staircase leading to nothing. Draco’s trunk was open on the bed, and the boy in question was stuffing what looked like balled up robes inside of it.

Panic rose in Harry’s chest before he recognized it for what it was. He blurted out, “What the hell are you doing?”

Draco whirled around. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m saving you the trouble of asking me to leave.”

Confusion and anger and hurt built inside Harry. How could this absolute idiot think that he was going to ask him to leave, after he’d just defended him to his two best friends in the entire world? “Defended” wasn’t even the right word—he’d practically extolled his bloody virtues. He’d kissed him in front of them, for fuck’s sake! 

He hustled over to the bed and slammed the trunk lid shut. Draco scowled at him and reached over to open it, but Harry grabbed his wrist with greater force than he had intended. 

“Stop it,” he said warningly, not easing up on his grip. “Just...would you just fucking _stop_ it, for once?”

Something like fear flashed across Draco’s face, and when tried to wrest his hand from Harry’s grip, Harry released him. Draco  
flung the trunk open dramatically, but Harry saw that his hands were shaking. He regretted gripping him so forcefully.

“Suppose this means that your friends haven’t succeeded in talking you off being nice to me, then?” Draco spat before Harry could say anything.

His anger returned quicker than he’d anticipated, heating his blood. “Are you taking the fucking piss? You really think that’s the conversation we had down there, you great sodding idiot? You think--”

“I _know_ that was the conversation you lot had down there, I could hear every sodding word!” Draco threw two pairs of balled-up socks at Harry, which bounced pitifully off of his chest and fell to the floor.

Harry would have laughed if he hadn’t been so upset. He tossed his hands up. “You really aren’t as smart as you look, because if you’d heard every sodding word, you would know that my best friends would never try to talk me out of being the happiest I’ve been in ages.”

Draco froze, his hand clutching a small book that Harry knew he meant to throw at him. His eyes widened in realization.

“Yeah, I said it,” continued Harry, though his face burned. He didn’t regret saying it—he was going to have to be blunt, seeing as Draco insisted on being the most obtuse tosser in the entire United Kingdom at all times. “I’m very happy with you. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear, but since not…”

He slammed Draco’s trunk closed again emphatically and gave Draco a look, daring him to open it back up. “And I’ll have you know, you infuriating git, that even though Ron and Hermione don’t quite understand _this_ , they’re coming round to have dinner tomorrow night. With us. They’re making an effort. They want to get to know you, like I know you.”

Draco’s face softened considerably, but it was likely unintentional. As if remembering himself, he made a face like he was smelling shit. “Yeah, That’s a bloody laugh. They still hate me, I knew they would.”

“Well you weren’t exactly a peach down there,were you,” said Harry, irritated.

Draco glared daggers and crossed his arms over his chest. “And when exactly have I ever been a ‘peach’ to anyone about anything, Potter?”

“I can think of several recent examples, actually,” snapped Harry, the anger in his tone not fitting for the sentiment. He shook his head, letting a smile play at his lips as he pried Draco’s hands away from his chest and held them in his own. “Look, If you want to be with me, you need to accept that Ron and Hermione aren’t going anywhere. They’re my family. I know it’s weird, I know it’s going to take some time, but…it’s just non-fucking-negotiable. And don’t forget, they only dislike you because you’ve acted like an utter and total prick to them for, well, forever. They don’t know the side of you that I’m getting to know now, yet. It’ll take time on both ends, but you have to put in the effort, too.”

Draco was clearly trying to scowl, but it didn’t work, not when he was blushing and looking down at where their hands were joined. A fierce warmth surged in his chest as Harry brought Draco’s hands to his lips and kissed each of his pale knuckles. The pink on his cheekbones deepened, and Harry felt a pang of want in his gut. This boy was infuriating beyond measure, but Harry knew he would be, and he took great pleasure in flustering him as often as possible.

Draco was lucky that Harry’s hunger for the fry-up that he could smell Kreacher cooking inexplicably outweighed his desire at this moment, or else he would have found himself ravished right there, bent over the trunk, while Harry got on his knees and worshipped him with his mouth. 

Harry’s stomach growled insistently. That would have to wait. “So,” he said, “are you going to stay here with me, or are you going to run away like a little boy having a tantrum?” 

Draco looked unsure. “But...the article. You want me to stay after all that?”

Though he knew they would eventually have to talk about it, Harry didn’t want to yet. “Again, yes, I want you to stay, tosser, but...the article...can we just leave it? For now? I’m so fucking hungry, and I’m already tired...I can’t deal with it right now.”

Relief passed across Draco’s face. “All right. We’ll leave it.”

“Good. Now come on. There’s food.”

With a sheepish nod, Draco let Harry lead him downstairs by the hand.

*******************

That night, after polishing off nearly an entire stock pot of fresh ratatouille that was, admittedly, made more by Draco than by Harry, Harry took Draco out into the garden. 

His suspicions had been correct: Draco was definitely the sort of bloke who was into this kind of thing. Harry had taken care to enchant the fairy lights and lanterns, which bathed the plants and flowers in a warm glow under the summer moon. 

Draco was a sight to behold, happily sipping his wine as he meandered through the night-blooming jasmine, the moon flowers, the tuberose. Occasionally, he crouched down to lay soft, inquisitive fingers on white petals, his face youthful and open. Harry wished very much that he had a camera; he would give anything to capture this moment forever. Draco bent even further down and stuck his face into a cluster of pinkish-purple and inhaled deeply, then looked up at Harry with a lopsided grin. A warm ache burst in Harry’s chest, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe.

“Belladonna,” said Draco absently, dragging a careful knuckle over tubular, indigo blossoms. “Lovely.”

“It’s quite poisonous,” said Harry, gently pulling Draco’s wrist away. He set his wine glass down in the soft dirt and turned Draco’s hand over in his. Draco looked at him, his eyes curious and open. Harry was overwhelmed by how badly he wanted to kiss him, so he cupped his face in his hands and brought their lips together.

“Thank you,” said Harry softly, once he’d pulled back. “For this morning, and for yesterday. For taking care of me. For not having a bloody heart attack when Ron and Hermione showed up. I know that couldn’t have been easy.”

Draco bit his bottom lip, one of the lips that Harry had just kissed. “I was worried for a moment that my potion had cocked you up more than it was meant to. I’m glad it didn’t.”

“Have you been taking those potions, for sleep?” Harry didn’t know where the question came from, or why he was asking it now.

“No. Well, not recently. Been sleeping all right, um, with you. You know, I haven’t slept this much in years, come to think of it. At least, without potions. And, er, except for last night, when I didn’t sleep at all.”

Harry smiled apologetically. “Sorry. Hopefully that means that you’ll sleep well tonight.”

“I’m just glad I didn’t accidentally put the Saviour of the sodding Wizarding World into a coma with one of my potions.”

Harry laughed softly, then thought of something. He doubted it was the right time to bring it up, but timing hadn’t really ever been on his side, so he went for it. “So, speaking of potions, maybe we can go to Diagon Alley this week? Get you that new potions kit? Maybe some things for year eight?”

Draco released Harry’s hands and crossed his arms. Harry continued, “Or just the potions kit. Whatever. But I figure since you’ve been getting all this practice and become really, um, really brilliant, it would be a shame to waste all that just because you don’t have a potions kit. Plus, we both need new owls.”

Wary grey eyes searched his face. ”Hmmm. You might be right about this. All right. Fine. But no more talk about bloody year eight.”

“All right.” Harry felt a pang of regret, something hollow inside of him at the thought of returning to Hogwarts without Draco.

“Also, um.” Draco hesitated, looking worried. “Won’t the papers be all over us again, like at the hospital? I...I don’t want to deal with that again.”

Harry cringed. He’d been doing such a bang-up job of pushing the Prophet fiasco from his mind, that he had literally forgotten about it. For the last hour and some change, at least. “Bollocks. Yeah. Well, we haven’t really dealt with it yet, have we? The article?”

Draco’s eyes darted to his empty wine glass. “I think I need more alcohol.”

He closed his eyes and summoned a bottle of something expensive effortlessly. To Harry’s surprise, he took a seat right there in the dirt and refilled both his and Harry’s glasses. 

“All right, so this is happening now, I guess.” Harry sat down and took the proffered wine. “Thank you.”

“This is a shit show,” said Draco matter of factly, sipping his wine. 

“Obviously.”

“I don’t, er...I don’t think I really care that people know I’m gay.” He looked furtively at Harry before trying to casually sip his wine.

“Oh, me neither, not really. Well. Bisexual, I guess, but yeah. Doubt anyone will bother with those semantics. But yeah, that’s hardly the biggest issue here.”

“Not that my father will be overly pleased.” Draco stared into his wine. “What with the lack of descendants to perpetuate the bloodline and all. But what does that really matter, I guess, especially if he’s going to be...well. What does that matter.”

Merlin. Harry took a drink. “He...doesn’t know?”

“Fuck, I dunno. Maybe he does. Mum knows. I, um…” Harry could tell that he was blushing even under the fairy lights.”I brought Pansy home during Christmas break once. Pansy Parkinson.”

“I know who Pansy is.”

“Right. She was a good friend, maybe she still is...but, hmm, Mum could tell she was just a friend, but I’m fairly certain that Dad was oblivious. Mum came to me and said that it didn’t matter to her if I liked girls or boys, and I just caved and came out right then and there.”

“So you don’t like girls like that...at all?” Harry couldn’t relate, and he was surprised: he had always thought that Draco and Pansy had been an item.

Draco looked at him like he was the biggest moron on the planet. “Fuck no, Potter. No, I do not.”

Harry laughed a little and touched his knee. “Okay, I was just asking.”

The pointy face before him darkened and Draco shot harry a cold look, like he was mad that Harry had tried to bring levity to the conversation. “But they were right, though. In the article. All of the things they said about me...they’re all true, as you know.” His eyes glossed over. “They even mentioned...h-him, they mentioned things that I thought were not public record, and I...that’s what I don’t…”

He trailed off and looked away. Harry could see the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Enraged, he responded, “I know, I don’t know how they got that information, but I’d like to cast an unforgivable curse or three on the arse who decided it would be a good idea to publish it.”

“People are going to think what they’re going to think.” Draco rose, pacing and swirling the wine in his glass. “I don’t even...it’s not even that I care that people saw the bloody transcripts, or that they know, but just...just seeing it there in writing, all spelled out…”

Harry got to his feet, understanding. He laid a gentle hand on Draco's shoulder. “It was another...violation.”

Draco closed his eyes and nodded. “It was. It really was--they took what happened, something they know nothing about, of course, and breathed life into it, and I had to see it, and think about it again, and now everyone’s going to know that I was his pathetic, disgusting little plaything, that I—“

“You’re not pathetic or disgusting,” said Harry fiercely. “Fuck the Prophet, and fuck anyone who puts any stock in it. You’re not disgraced, you’re healing. They are disgracing _themselves_ by profiting off of this stuff, and it needs to end. I’m going to write a letter. Hell, I’m going to march down there myself and give them a piece of my mind. You’re recovering, like everyone else, except you’ve had it much worse than everyone else has. And honestly, anyone who feels like they can judge you can fucking answer to me.” A loud hiccup punctuated that thought, and Harry smiled feebly. 

This earned him a sniffly little laugh. “Seriously? You’re serious? You’re going to stand up to my legion of naysayers, which is essentially the entire wizarding world—”

“You know what? Yeah. I’m going to stand up to everyone. That’s my bloody job.” Yesterday’s nausea and anxiety seemed so far away now that he was standing in his perfect garden on a perfect summer night, halfway drunk, and so close to the person he wanted to be with more than anyone in the world in that moment. _And yes, that person was Draco bloody Malfoy_. “Sod this article. Sod the Prophet. We don’t owe anyone an explanation about anything. But I should warn you, if you want to be with me—"

“Of course I want to be with you,” interrupted Draco, face flushing. “You don’t have to keep saying that like it’s some big fucking mystery.”

Harry’s train of thought came to a screeching halt. “W-what? You do? Really?”

“ _Yes_ , idiot. I…” Draco faltered. “I haven’t really been in a proper _thing_ with someone else before, ever, and I know I’m bound to bollocks it up, and I _know_ I’ve got loads of shit to sort out, and fuck, I don’t even know if you want to be with me, too, but—”

Harry yanked Draco by the front of his shirt and kissed him sloppily on the mouth, silencing his rambling, as adorable as it was. He was actually 99% certain that Draco was wearing _his_ shirt, come to think of it, but that was neither here nor there. Draco wanted to _be_ with him, just like Harry wanted, and they were going to get through this whole Daily Prophet, Ron and Hermione thing. They were going to get through it all, and Draco was going to wear as many of Harry's shirts as he bloody well pleased. 

Or maybe he'd wear no shirts.

Harry pulled away, his vision hazy, like he’d had too much Elixir to Induce Euphoria. “So...we’re together now, you and I? Properly? We’re properly dating? Like...we’re boyfriends?”

Draco scoffed, but his rosy cheeks betrayed him. “Yes, for fuck’s sake, yes. That is...if you’d like that.”

“Of course, I would, _idiot_.” Harry sighed happily and pressed their foreheads together. He gasped--something was there, pulsing between the points where their skin touched. It was almost a tingle, which was somehow simultaneously light, yet powerful. It was Draco’s magic, and it felt wonderful and gorgeous and the warmth and comfort that Harry so often associated with _home_ was thrumming through him.

“Merlin,” whispered Draco. His fingers tightened in Harry’s.

“Can you feel that, too?” Harry’s heart pounded in his chest.

“Yes. What is it?”

“I think it’s your magic.”

“I think it’s yours.”

Harry was so overwhelmed by everything that he no longer knew what to say. Luckily, the boy clasping their hands together leaned forward and whispered, maybe a bit nervously, “Take me to bed?” 

So Harry brought Draco upstairs, undressed him, and enthusiastically tried to show him how he felt. That night, he chose to forget about his troubles, about his fears and worries, about the past, and what lay ahead. Instead, he lost himself in the smell of Draco’s hair, the taste of Draco’s sweat, the sound of his name gasped reverently in Draco’s voice, the ecstasy of his touch, and the crippling, terrifying feeling that permeated every last cell in his body, engulfing him entirely, which he now knew beyond the shadow of a doubt to be love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies again for this taking ages! This chapter was a challenge for me, for sure. I didn't know how I wanted things to go down here, so I wrote and rewrote this and the following chapter roughly 1 zillion times (because of course I did), edited the everloving FUCK out of it, rewrote it again, and then I had sooo many pages written, and I had no idea where I wanted to break it up, yadda yadda yadda...in any case, I hope you enjoyed this, and there is MORE, by Merlin, there is a lot more! Thank you for reading and sticking with me!
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts with ye olde comments, they sustain my life! Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://hannibalssweaters.tumblr.com/) if you want! The next installment will be up as soon as I can get myself to stop fiddling with it.


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